


Super Dark Times

by nervoussis



Series: Super Dark Times [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Denial of Feelings, Domestic Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Like, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, a lot of angst though, be prepared, but the end of the series will be rewarding, or we won’t fully arrive at the end, so don’t be afraid of the darkness, we have to embrace the darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: So Nancy Wheeler isn’t sure about King Steve.Isn’t sure he’s her hero.For reasons he can’t explain, Billy has trouble believing it could be true. That anyone could doubt Steve Harrington and the do-good stick up his ass. Billy tries not to think about it as he rounds the corner into the locker room.During the events of season two Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington form a wobbly romance. Like, a fawn learning to walk, tripping on broken tree limbs wobbly. Steve is in post-breakup hell and just, needs. Wants. And Billy tries to give it to him, because he's Steve, and Billy swears he hung the moon.(all poems are from artist Richard Siken)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Harringrove - Relationship, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler
Series: Super Dark Times [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789465
Comments: 72
Kudos: 146





	1. Cricle the Drain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about that scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.  
> Especially that, but I should have known. But, you see I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back."

There’s a soft precision in the way Steve Harrington’s lips hang open when he’s listening to someone speak. Fully focused. 

It could be anybody--coaches, teachers, losers or sluts--and those passing by on the street would think they’re witness to the most titillating conversation on Earth just because of that look. 

It’s infuriating.

He holds his head forward the way little birds sometimes do in anticipation of food, and his hands always keep busy. Tapping the dull linoleum table tops at school, patting absently through his hair, thumbs grazing his bottom lip. Slim fingers always at work. Always building and creating small worlds while he listens. While he laughs and smiles and flicks his tongue to caress the pointed corners of his mouth. 

While he looks straight through you.

Steve always does that after a good laugh. Billy doubts he’s even aware he does it. But he knows. He sees.

Billy’s knuckles ache.

He swishes a mouth full of coke, shuddering as waves of sugar hit his front teeth. Swallows, with difficulty, before looking down at his own hands. Swollen, bruised, angry hands. Never building or creating anything, save for a joint every now and again. Always bulldozing, creating level ground, fists clearing a path in the crowd so that no one has the chance to get close. 

To really take a look at him and figure out who Billy Hargrove _is_. 

But he hadn’t been like that in California. Not when he’d had friends or little burrows to escape to when the endless sweep of Max and her bitchy voice and her incessant whining became too much. 

Back home in San Fran, Billy always knew the beach was just a ten minute drive. A small journey to cheap beer, sandy calves, and pink lips. 

He shakes his head.

From across the cafeteria Steve laughs at something Tommy says, his head tipping back, his eyes going all heavy and half-lidded. He licks his lips, rolling a serrated soda cap between the pads of his fingers. 

Billy tries not to stare. Really, he does, especially when Hawkins High is full of three hundred cucks just dying to push his buttons. Billy has heard he’s a lot of fun to get riled up when he puts those angry hands to good use. 

Guess he gets that from Neil. 

Billy’s knuckles ache. Pain flaring from between the ligaments. So, he clenches his fist. Slowly-- _stretch, release, stretch, release_ \--while Steve coils a lock of hair around his index finger. 

_Stretch, release._

It’s not that Billy really minds Indiana, in the literal sense. In theory he likes the hick town. The way everyone operates like nothing exists beyond the tri-state area or the woods which lie in every direction. 

It’s obvious that Hawkins is, itself, running about five years behind the rest of the world. Here, people leave their doors unlocked, their windows open. Park Street is home to disgustingly homey mom and pop shops. Neighbors still roll out the welcome wagon for newcomers, some even bringing heat-up casseroles in neat ceramic dishes.

He doubts Hawkins has seen anything exciting, anything _dangerous_ , in the last hundred years or so. 

And he knows he’s the only faggot for about two hundred miles. 

So, Billy peels his eyes away from Harrington’s freckled cheeks and focuses on breathing. On finishing the unseasoned tuna sandwich Susan packed this morning.

Sometimes he loses control. Guess he also gets that from Neil.

It’s like this. Billy will be walking down the hallway and he’ll see some prick dressed in a fuzzy cardigan give him a _look_ , like he has something funny to say, and Billy’s vision will tunnel. His hands will start to shake. He’ll smile and they’ll exchange sharp pleasantries which turn into words.

Then laughs.

Then fists.

And before he knows what's happened he’ll wake up with blood on his shoes, under his fingernails, on his jeans. Pain splitting evenly between his own eyebrows as the kid lies motionless on the ground. 

They get one hit. That’s his rule. 

Then the principal will call his dad. And Neil will drive him into the woods to have a talk. 

And Billy will have to give himself stitches while Max sleeps in the next room. 

So yeah, Billy has a rep.

Harrington’s been wary of him since they first locked eyes across the parking lot. He’s got this stupid little hero routine he does when Billy’s around. Puffs his chest out, gets right up in Billy's face. _Cool it, Hargrove._

Then Wheeler will fold her arms and press her lips into a thin line, like she’s tough shit. And Steve will put his pretty fingers on Billy’s sternum and give him a push. Just hard enough to make him flinch. 

And oh, does Billy love it. Lap it up like a fucking _dog_.

He chances a look across the lunch room to Steve’s table, where Nancy floats to nibble on her lunch, wraps herself loosely in Harrington’s left arm. She reminds Billy of a rabbit. Innocent, all eyes and lips. Twitchy nose. She just looks like how Betty Crocker would be if she were hot. Annoyingly sincere. Genuine. He wonders if this is why Steve looks at her like she came in and set the world straight. 

Suddenly Billy’s looking right into Steve’s eyes.

Harrington lifts an eyebrow, questioning. He’s stopped rolling the soda cap between his fingers and is instead tapping it against the table top. His tongue flicks out and swipes quickly, aggressively, to wet the skin nestled under his bottom lip. 

Billy knows that look. Harrington thinks he was staring at his tart little girlfriend. Wheeler looks between them and Billy smiles, bares his canines at them in a way that makes her drop her gaze. Not Steve, Though. Steve just sits, tapping the cap from his soda bottle, and Billy can taste rather than see the glittering fury in Harrington’s eyes.

He likes this part. 

Warmth creeps up his neck, his veins growing steely with anticipation. _Hit me. Come on, I want you to_. Billy clears the last dregs in his soda can and wipes a hand across his mouth. 

Steve holds his eyes. 

Steady.

Billy relaxes, allowing the warmth to spread across his face. Twist his expression. He lets it spread down his arms into the tips of his fingers and holds it there. He cocks his head back, so he’s looking at King Steve down the length of his nose.

And blows him a smooch. 

Harrington gives a small, expressionless wave. Billy chuckles once. Twice. 

He crushes the soda can, sharp edges slicing into his palm.

Someday soon when high school is a distant memory, a bad dream, and the Camaro is packed and he’s on his way home to San Francisco, Billy will lay Steve Harrington flat on the ground and break every bone in his body.


	2. The Brief but Wondrous Love of Nancy Wheeler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) In which we are met at the crossroads with fire and steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are so many things I'm not allowed to tell you. I touch myself, I dream. Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that your skin is this skin, these hands your hands...this is the part of the movie where you can see through the acting."

She sits next to him in English and chews on the end of her pencil.

That’s why Billy first decides he doesn’t like the bitch. Granted, it doesn’t take much to force his hand.

Billy’s never been what you’d call a “people person.” His mom used to laugh, brush his blonde curls down over his eyes, shake her head when he refused to make friends at school. The other kids were too loud, he'd said, too easily distracted. He’d much rather read a book. His mom’s eyes would go soft, the color of muddy puddles.

_Billy goat, such a lonely boy._

“But,” he thinks as Nancy Wheeler bites her eraser clean off and actually _sets the slobbery lump on the desk between them_ , “what’s to like?”

From the front of the classroom Mrs. Jameson drones on about _The Catcher and the Rye_ , a book Billy’s read cover to cover and let Max borrow twice. She’s never allowed in his room, as a rule. But sometimes he’ll make an exception when he’s read a particularly good book he knows she’ll appreciate. The angstier the better. Rye was a huge hit.

As Mrs. Jameson scrapes a stick of chalk across the blackboard, writing in neat letters, Nancy prattles to Tammy Thompson about nothing in particular.

Billy’s eyebrows knit together. He rolls his shoulders, sucks his teeth, tries to focus on his notes. Forces himself to tune her out; _stretch, release._

But then she says something interesting for once.

The tips of his ears perk up as Steve’s name is whispered with bated breath. He catches them in the middle of a thought.

“So, to paraphrase, you aren’t going to Tom's party on Saturday?”

Nancy removes the pencil from her mouth. “I’m not sure?” She doesn’t speak so much as breathes. Out her words, softly, sweetly. “I don’t know. Things just haven’t been, normal? With steve. I don’t know.”

He can practically see Tammy leaning sideways. “What?”

“He’s needy,” Nancy sounds guilty, admitting it out loud. “After what happened last year, the thing wi-with Will Byers, it’s different. He’s different.”

Billy’s heard about the kid. His disappearance. Harrington apparently helped track him down. He leans back in his chair and feels sparks of uneasiness reverberate in his stomach. Nancy continues in her wispy voice, careful not to raise alarm to their conversation..

“I’m not sure I want a constant reminder of those times.” She sounds far away. In her head. “Dark. Too dark.”

“Super dark,” Tammy says carefully.

Billy can tell she hasn’t really been listening. Steve, he’s Nancy’s reminder. Her burden. Billy tries to decipher what it means. How it makes him feel, he realizes with a jolt. Mrs. Jameson turns her eyes to the class, cutting all conversations short.

Then, quietly: “You should come, Nance.”

A laugh from Wheeler. “Oh, what, you can’t survive a night without me?” Tammy says something dismissive, talks about it being Halloween, how ‘maybe Steve’ll surprise you!’ Billy looks out the window until the bell rings. Then he’s moving through the halls toward the gym.

So Nancy Wheeler isn’t sure about King Steve.

Isn’t sure he’s her hero.

For reasons he can’t explain, Billy has trouble believing it could be true. That anyone could doubt Steve Harrington and the do-good stick up his ass. Billy tries not to think about it as he rounds the corner into the locker room.

\--

Basketball has been good for his aggression.

Most days, after practice when his legs feel like stretched rubber bands, he’ll pick Max up from the arcade and she’ll give him lip.

Speak down to him in a way only little sisters can.

It used to be that Billy would respond with a fist on the dashboard, a threat, a snarl. Anything to make her whimper and remember her place--under the heel of his boot. Sure, Max is his step-bitch, but that’s done little to stop her from getting under his skin.

After practice, though, he’s gotten rid of the chip that lives on his shoulder. At least for a while.

Before practice is a different story. Before practice he’s on edge, no bark and all bite.

The guys are already getting into gear when he stops in front of his locker, number eleven, and removes his jacket. Tommy’s boasting about fucking Carole last night and the guys are listening in. Billy doesn’t hate Tommy. Finds him funny, even, bearable, which is surprising. The kid takes up space as Hawkins’ resident ass and not even Billy is immune to the absurdity.

Tommy’s right at the juicy part, “--And she wasn’t wearing draws, man I swear,--” when the guys giggle, seriously _giggle_ like seventh graders, and Harrington slams his hand against his locker.

“Find a new topic.”

Billy tugs his gym shorts up around his hips and turns to face a shirtless Steve. Head hung low, shoulders taught. He's got his back to the room but Billy can see his ragged breathing. Everyone quiets long enough for Tommy to snort, “Harrington, relax man.” He secures the laces on his left shoe. Laughs tightly, all teeth.

Before Billy can stop himself the words come tumbling out.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Harrington’s shoulders squeeze together at the sound of his voice. “You’d bang Carole. Assuming you could.”

Marcus Blawson feigns squeezing his own tits, and everyone laughs.

Steve turns around abruptly and Billy’s eyes slide over his bare chest. Quickly. Wouldn’t even notice if he weren’t searching for it.

The look in Harrington’s eyes is a warning. A threat. Billy’s tongue finds his teeth, resting between the rows, and he can feel it. The warmth spreading across his chest and down to his fingertips. His head starts to spin.

Steve pulls a shirt over his head. “Bang Carole.” He’s thoughtful. “See, I don’t think I would.”

 _Come on, princess._ He thinks.

 _Hit me. Come on. I want you to make me bleed._  
  
It’s become a standoff, a scene, and Billy knows it. Tommy grins.

“Why not,” He takes one step forward. Two. His fingers start to itch. The flush on Steve’s collar bone makes Billy’s eyes shine, zero in with anticipation of the kill.

“Too preoccupied with your twig bitch girlfriend?” There’s a couple of snickers from the other guys. Steve’s jaw bounces up and down, up and down as he clenches his teeth. Billy can feel the anger radiate off him like mist. Something in his gut flares to life. _Push, keep pushing, push back._

Up down, up down. Tense muscles and averted eyes. Billy’s feet carry him forward until he’s a breath away from Harrington’s face. He ducks so he can catch Steve’s eyes, hold them hostage as he whispers, “Unless you’re just a faggo--”

Fist to chin, Billy’s head snaps back.

He feels a laugh gather somewhere in his groin. Everyone is silent and unmoving, anxious to see what happens. Steve’s touch does something to him, makes his skin feel like it’s crawling away and fusing with his bones all at once.

_Not here. Not now._

So Billy grins and feels a warm slither of blood roll down his chin.

Steve looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it to happen. The warmth is so intense that Billy feels like he’s on fire.

He leans in to Steve’s shoulder and says, “Didn’t think so anyway,” And spits a wad of blood next to Harrington’s shoe.

Without another word he returns to his locker, pulls on a shirt and heads to the court, leaving the room and Steve-Fucking-Harrington in stunned silence.

\--

Two days later he’s sitting on the hood of his car after practice, smoking through the last of his pack while the sun sets over East Hawkins.

Max is trying his patience, but what else is new. Sometimes Billy feels like he’s living the same day over and over again.

He made it abundantly clear: outside the arcade, 6:30 sharp or it’s her funeral.

As usual she ignored his threats and is slicing through the top numbers on _Pac-man_ , by the looks of it.

He knows he’ll pay for her selfishness later but the elated look on her face makes his chest swell. So, he’s giving her an extra thirty minutes. Just because.

“Hargrove?”

Steve Harrington is crossing the parking lot toward Billy’s car, hair big and crazy. He runs a hand through it and Billy tries not to stare, he does, so he turns his eyes toward the window. Max jumps up and down; clearly she won. Billy sucks on his cigarette, cheeks hollow.

“Hiya, princess.”

That earns him an eye-roll. “What are you doing here?”

“What can I say,” He runs his eyes up and down the length of Steve’s body. “I’m a sucker for dumb pinball machines and the stench of pre-pubecent nerds.”

Steve chuckles. “Gotta say, as many times as I’ve imagined what kind of shit you do in your free time, I never thought this would be your haunt.”

Billy's thighs tingle.

Steve hasn’t been thinking about him, that’s not what he means, but Billy's vision sharpens and his heart hammers painfully against his ribs. He crushes the cigarette under the heel of his boot and lights another.

“Yeah, well,” He’s surprised by how cool his voice sounds. How even. “My kid sister’s kicking _Pac-man’s_ ass, thought I’d let her have this one.”

  
Steve is silent for a moment and when Billy finally musters the courage to look over, Harrington is watching him. Not starring, exactly, just watching him watch Max. The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

The look feels too intimate, too much all at once and Billy doesn’t know what to do.

How to handle the soft gaze of Steve Harrington.

His lips are slightly parted and his hands are fiddling with the keys at his belt loop, a look of concentration Billy has studied. Seen in his dreams. Knows like the sound of knuckle against skin. He has the overwhelming urge to kiss the droopy part of Steve’s eyelids but instead takes the moment and crushes it in his hands.

“Princess, in the interest of saving time, why don’t you just tell me what you want.”

  
Steve breathes sharply. In-out. “Look, I just wanted to apologize.”

“What?”

Harrington gestures to the Camaro's hood and Billy splays the hand not holding his cigarette. _I guess you can sit if you have to_. The car shifts with his weight and they lapse into a silence that’s not entirely comfortable. Eyes forward. “About the fight,” Steve says, “I’m sorry.”

 _Huh._ Billy feels his mouth tremble as smoke snakes through his lungs.

Max suddenly looks at him through the window as if finally coming back to Earth. He smirks, wide and dangerous like a shark. She swallows and dips to pick up her bag. She’s scared.

Good.

Harrington clears his throat again. “Yeah, like, I was just having a bad day. Nancy was just...acting weird? Distant, or whatever, and wouldn’t really tell me why or--”

Billy turns to look at Steve. The side of his face is dotted all over with dark brown freckles. A dust across his nose, a thick cluster near his jaw. The obvious ones are best, he thinks. He likes to see them, likes to count how many there are.

“--And yeah. I’m just sorry, I guess.” Steve turns to look at him, brows knitted together, and instantly Billy’s stomach flips.

This could be the moment. He could say something. Do something.

_I understand, it’s okay._

“And besides, I wouldn’t want Nancy to see me that way. Violent.” Steve's eyes are trained on his lips.

And just like that, Billy feels the walls come up, feels his face twist into something ugly.

Something mean. “You think I fucking care?”

Harrington takes it like a slap in the face. “I--huh?”

Billy can’t exactly explain it but he wants Steve to touch him. Just once, so he knows this is real. So the venom on his tongue can burn and fizzle out.

Billy takes the smoke in his mouth and blows it in Harrington’s eyes.

“You really are just a pretty face, you know that?” He slides off the hood of the car, heels hitting the ground a little too loudly. Like a gunshot. “I said, you think I give a shit about Wheeler or your bitchy little cat fight?”

Steve’s got his tongue poking through the skin of his cheek.

Billy tries not to focus on Steve’s tongue. “I, listen, I just thought if I could explain--”

Billy slams his fist, the sound of metal against skin. “I don't need your explanations, baby.”

There’s a slow moment where Steve’s eyes pin Billy in place, where his pupils dilate against the soft brown of his iris’ and Billy’s _sure_ , like a fucking heart attack, that Steve can see through it.

Can see through _him_.

But, then, just as quickly the look is gone and Harrington gets up in his face, jaw working, and spits, “You’re an asshole.”

Billy’s hands itch.

He wants to put them in Steve’s hair, under his shirt, close his fingers around Harrington’s throat and _squeeze_.

He grins. “Maybe so. Besides, what you did to me? I’ve had a lot worse.”

Max comes through the door right then, a trail of four boys following closely behind her. They’re talking loudly and all at once and it makes Billy’s head spin, the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He tears his eyes away from Steve Harrington.

“Hey, Lard-ass!” She stops dead in her tracks, the boys fall silent.

Max glances over her shoulder. “Billy, you’re such an assho--”

He grabs her by the arm. “Yeah, spare me. You’re thirty minutes late, dipshit. Or can’t you count?” Max squirms in his grip so he lets go, and she climbs into the passenger seat without a word.

“Bye, Max!”

Billy turns on his heel and faces them.

The gang of twerps. Who are so obviously keyed up, ballsy, from having had an actual conversation with a real girl. “Who said that?”

They stare at him.

He walks forward slowly, searching each of their faces. They squirm, just a little, and that’s enough. Warmth tears through Billy’s stomach like a cat's claws. He lunges forward. “WHO SAID THAT?”

Harrington jumps between them, protective. He puts his hand on Billy’s chest and shoves. “Fuck off, Billy.”

Hero routine.

And He can’t fight the grin that splits his face into uneven halves. The feeling he gets from Steve touching him is intoxicating.

Billy lifts his hands in mock surrender. “See ya ‘round, Harrington.”

He gets behind the wheel and says, “When I say 6:30, I mean it.” And drives home.


	3. Hot Rod, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) Maybe I'm not All that You Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And you realize the one person in the world who loves you isn't the one you thought it would be, and you don't trust him to love you in a way you would enjoy"

The rest of the week continues without a hitch.

He gets a punch in the gut that night from Neil; _You do right by me, not your sister,_ and has sleep with a pack of frozen peas pressed against his bare skin.

It could be worse.

The next day at school Harrington keeps giving him these big puppy dog eyes that make Billy want to curl up and disappear. There are moments he feels like if he doesn’t talk to Steve, say sorry for their exchange at the Arcade, he’ll actually die.

Really, the Earth will rise up and swallow him.

But every time he makes up his mind to speak Nancy Wheeler appears out of thin air and Billy’s mood goes sour.

So he doesn’t say anything.

Just goes to school, drives Max around, plays basketball, keeps his head down.

And then it’s Friday night and they win their first game of the season.

Get this; Billy scores the winning shot. Tommy passes the ball for the fourth time during the game and Billy dunks, number five’s confused face disappearing as he flies into the air.

They’re on fire. The perfect duo, never having played like this before.

It’s like Tommy knows where Billy’s feet are going before he does.

When the game ends Coach blows his whistle and Billy whoops and jumps on Tommy’s back. The guys on the team laugh and cheer. He snarls as Tommy sprints into the locker room and drops him on his ass.

“What the _fuck_ , Tom,” But he can’t stop grinning, “Don’t make me kick your ass, yeah?”

The ass in question reaches down, offers his hand. Billy considers it before swiping Tommy’s feet out from under him. The kid falls in a heap of laughter, rolls to face Billy and says, “You aint half bad, Hargrove.”

Billy winks, already pulling his shirt up over his head. They scramble to their feet. “Right back at ya, Machismo.”

Tommy chuckles once and then quiets like the laughter was snatched out of his lungs or something. He has his eyes trained on a spot somewhere in the distance.

Billy turns to find Harrington watching them.

He looks out of place in the bustling thrawl of the locker room. Like a marble statue in a crowded museum. He’s got that flush on his collarbone again and Billy wonders what in the _fuck_ he has to be angry about after that fast victory on the court, but before Billy can say anything Steve moves toward the showers, towel in hand.

“You know, I’m having a party tomorrow night,” Tommy says suddenly. Billy turns to face him. “Free beer, hot chicks. You should come.”

Billy considers this, wonders if he’s supposed to take Max around trick-or-treating. He pulls his shorts off and points a thumb over his shoulder. “Sure your pal won’t mind? We aren’t exactly friendly.”

Tommy’s busy rooting through his locker so Billy can’t see his face but something in his voice snaps and turns to ice. “Nah, the guys a sissy.”

“What do you mean?”

The room empties as people head out to celebrate. Tommy smiles and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Nothing. See you at my party.” Billy watches him go with what is surely an open-mouthed expression.

_Nah, the guys a sissy._

Surely that can’t mean what he thinks it does. He begins gathering his clothes, preparing to leave. But, this is Indiana. What else could “sissy,” mean? Before he knows what he’s doing, Billy has a towel slung around his neck.

\--

Hawkins High doesn’t have stalls. It's like Billy's living in the 1950s. All the guys stand under those tiny steel shower heads, in a circle, it's basically a peep show.

The team calls it “the trough.”

Billy’s thought about starting a conversation with Coach several times before but he always thinks better of it.

After all, what shouts, “Sir, I’m a homosexual,” more than being afraid to shower with other guys?

See, after practice he waits until the room is mostly empty. Fills the time with shit talk and horseplay. If he’s lucky that takes up about ten minutes. Then he’ll grab a smoke outside with Blawson and then _maybe_ , once Harrington is fully clothed and saying his goodbyes, Billy will peel off his uniform and take a shower.

His schedule is subject to change but that’s the picture. The layout. The rule. Always burn fifteen minutes.

So, he’s never seen Steve Harrington naked. Sure, top half here, boxers and long legs there, but never _together._ Never at the same time.

So when he enters the showers and sees the kid standing in the far corner, head dipped under the stream, he gives himself a stern lecture. Tries to decide if he should pick one of the empty troughs or just join Harrington at his.

Attempts to work out which would be the least obvious.

Picking an empty trough would mean he’s too pussy to shower next to this one particular guy. Biting the bullet and sharing could be the neon sign Billy just doesn’t need right now.

Harrington starts working a lather around the supple skin of his tricep and Billy turns to leave, decides _okay I’m acting like a freak-o_.

There’s no proof what Tommy said was true, hell the guys spouts nonsensical _Bullshit_ like it’s his fucking _job or something_ \--

“You just gonna stand there, Hargrove, or should I make room?”

Billy feels his face go cold.

Nothing is more obvious than entering the showers, standing, staring, and then leaving without getting wet.

Billy grips the towel slung around his neck and tries for indifference, maybe even a little spite. Just to clear away any doubts.

To make sure Harrington isn’t suspicious of anything.

He turns on the faucet and snatches Steve’s soap, rubs the nub across his chest and around his shoulders.

Steve bats foam out of his eye but doesn't say anything, just sticks his face in the stream and spits up the stray droplets that swirl into his mouth.

Billy rinses off. He should say something.

“And hey,” _I should apologize._ “About Wheeler. Don’t sweat it, man. Pretty boy like you’s got nothing to worry about.” _I’m an asshole._

Steve stares at him in disbelief.

He’s got that look on his face again. Bambi eyes and parted lips. Billy feels his chest swell. Feels like he could say anything and Steve would really hear him. 

Harrington opens his mouth wider, like he’s going to say something, but Billy charges on. “Plenty of bitches in the sea.”

He relishes the way Harrington’s eyes narrow, the skin on the sides of his nose wrinkling like crepe paper.

_I’m an asshole and I’m sorry._

Steve’s eyes drift to the ceiling and he says, “Nancy and I didn’t break up.”

The corners of Billy’s mind stretch, convulse, and he’s overwhelmed with the memory of Wheeler’s wispy voice. Four days ago in Mrs. Jameson’s fifth period English class. Nancy had said Steve reminds her of things. Bad times.

 _‘He’s just so needy. So different.’_ That's what she'd said. About Steve.

He feels his heart shudder in a way that leaks sadness, pity, into his veins as if he’s attached to an I.V.

Harrington's is looking at Billy, waiting for him to respond.

His skin is pink from the heat of the shower. Water droplets mingle with his freckles to create something new, alien, on the apples of his cheeks.

Like a layer of sleeping stars.

Billy feels like he’s studying one of those hyper-realistic paintings up close, with a magnifying glass, and Harrington’s pink skin is all he can see.

It stains the shade of his world. Perverts it in a way he knows Neil would not approve of and will be able to see written all over his face.

_Faggot._

He’s gotta get the fuck out of here.

Billy blows his nose and digs deep in his gut for something else. Grapples for anger, disgust, anything that will drain his veins of the tenderness Steve’s sad Bambi eyes fill him with.

“Did you hear what I said, Hargrove?” Sparks of anger pop and blow in Harrington’s voice. He’s defensive, grasping at straws. “Because Nancy and I are fine.”

Billy’s engorged with sadness, pity.

 _The dumb kid’s in love_ , he thinks bitterly, but there’s no heat behind it.

In a lot of ways Billy can relate.

His hand flies up and turns Harrington’s water off. One last attempt to take Steve’s pain away, even if it’s just to replace it with poison.

Billy smacks Steve on the back and it's like they're suddenly caught in a thunderstorm. The sound echos off beige tile, reverberating and planting itself in Billy' sternum.

“Right.” He says, and Billy can’t meet the kid’s gaze. One look into those dopey, heroic eyes and Billy will tell him everything will be okay.

Lie to him.

“About those bitches,” He wraps the towel around his neck. “I’ll be sure to leave you some.”

He scampers around the trough, away from Harrington, and tries not to seem so eager for an escape.

_‘He’s just so needy. So different,’_

Billy pushes Wheeler’s voice out his ears like steam and says over his shoulder, “See you at Tom’s party, amigo.”

Back in front of his locker Billy dresses quickly, unconcerned with his wet skin.

He has to get the fuck out of here. Smoke a joint and drive 95 down a dirt road. Lift some weights, anything to get those eyes out of his system.

Steve could get his heart broken.

Billy slams his locker door and turns to leave, fingers already reaching into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Behind him he can hear the tinny ring of water against tile and hopes, to whatever may be listening, that Steve will get to keep his heart.


	4. Hot Rod, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) in which Billy watches Steve get dumped at Tommy's Halloween party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy. And the boy who loves you the wrong way keeps weakening. You thought if you handed over your body he'd do something interesting."
> 
> The songs used in this chapter are:  
> "TNT" by Sebastian Bach  
> and  
> "Drive," by the Cars. All rights reserved.

Max decides to go as Michael Myers for Halloween. While he thinks it’s pretty badass, Billy chainsmokes in the driveway while Susan takes their picture. It’s warm for an October evening, sweltering really, what with tomorrow being November first.

He tries to tack on a happy face as Susan asks, again, “What’s your costume, Billy?” and his hair falls flatter by the second.

He sighs, smoke curling up to his ears. “I’m not wearing a costume, Susan.”

She smiles and keeps snapping pictures, giving orders. “Move in Max, put your arm around him--there you go! See, that wasn’t so hard!” Max rolls her eyes and attempts to uphold an air of irritation. The classic ‘mom, you’re embarrassing me!’ persona all kids have down pat.

Billy doesn’t love Susan exactly, but she tries. To be a good mother figure, to make Billy feel like he can maintain some semblance of a normal teenage life when they both know she’s trying in vain. 

Neil stands behind her, arms crossed, a ring of sweat at his collar. The eternal brick wall that keeps Billy trapped like an animal. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to get in costume, Billy?” Susuan’s eyebrows droop. She’s fussing. “We could always say you’re going as a young James Dean?”

For just a moment Billy’s reminded of his mother, dressed as an angel, some Halloween night many years ago. He tries to ignore the shudder in his chest. 

Neil pushes up the sleeves of his yellow polo and says, curtly, “Let’s wrap up the photoshoot, woman.” And just like that, all the playfulness is gone and the air is sucked from the atmosphere. Billy feels Max tense up beside him. 

“Honey, it’s the kids’ first Halloween as brother and sister, we can’t just--”

“James Dean was a faggot,” Neil’s tone is matter of fact. He cleans his glasses, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt. “You want the boy to get any ideas? Not like he needs much convincing as it is.”

Susan’s mouth is tight as she snaps the camera’s lens cover back in its little frame. Her voice is small when she says, “I’d better go...put the camera back in the office.” She gives Max a hug, Billy a pat on his arm. 

Like he said, Susan tries.

As soon as the screen door slams shut behind her, Neil puts his hands on his hips and spits into the grass. “Max, why don’t you go help your mother?” And Billy says a silent prayer that Max will comply, no questions asked. Will shelve her bitchiness for one night so he can bring up Tommy’s party and the possibility of getting a late night. 

No such luck. Billy feels her eye roll set the world crooked. “No way, It’s already 7:30. I’ll miss all the good candy.” Neil’s mouth ticks up at the corner. The vein in the side of his neck jumps once and that’s all the convincing Billy needs. 

“Max, go help mom.”

She swings her head to look at him, incredulous. “Billy, I’m not listening to him, he’s not my dad--”

“MAX.” His voice reverberates against the paneled houses on their block, amplified by the quiet gravel road. He looks at Max and tries to communicate the danger she’s put him in. Practices his breathing, clenches his fist; _stretch, release_. He tries again.

“It’ll take just a minute and then we’ll have more candy than a couple of kings, alright?”

Her eyes soften, just a little, and then she turns to run back to the house.

Through the screen door she lingers, brows creased in a look of anguish. She disappears into the shadows and suddenly he’s left to atone for her crimes.

To settle her debt. 

“Anything happens to that girl, I’ll have your skull for an ashtray, you hear me?” Billy braces himself for the inevitable slap across the face, the searing gut punch. 

It doesn’t come. 

Neil trudges back up the driveway and Billy thinks he should just drop it. Return home with Max at ten o’clock, like he’d promised, and veg out in front of the tv with a bag of candy. Maybe watch _Friday the 13th,_ keep his head low.

But then he imagines Steve Harrington smoking a joint, pictures his slim fingers around a stick of rolled tobacco and he has to shoot his shot.

“A-actually, sir, I have a request.”

Neil pauses, two steps from the landing, knuckles going white on the rail. He looks over his shoulder and says, “What was that, boy?” In a way that promises before sunset a tampon will be shoved up Billy’s nose to stop the bleeding. “You’re asking me for a _favor_?”

“Yes, sir,” He fights to keep his voice even as Neil closes in. “Some of the guys on the team are having a party tonight. I’d have max home by ten, as agreed, and then I thought I could swing by and--”

The first slap feels like a bee sting. “You listen to me, you little shit. You don’t ask me for favors, not when I raised you. Not when you live in my house,” Billy’s hands start to shake. _Don’t fucking cry, don’t you dare fucking cry._ “You do what I say when I say it, no negotiations and no questions asked. Understood?”

Billy tries to reply but it feels like forcing the sun to rise. The second slap makes his head spin around. “I said, do you understand, faggot?” Billy nods once. Sharp and clear. 

“Yes,” He wills his voice not to crack. “Yes, sir.”

Neil doesn’t move and Billy’s heart stops beating. He should have let it drop. His mind reels, tries to find footing on a weak plea for mercy; please don’t hit me again. Instead his mouth takes off without his brain and says, “It’s just that Tammy Thompson will be there, and I was hoping for a dance, is all.”

One.   
Two.  
Three.

Billy counts the seconds. Neil’s eyes are trained on his face, studying every twitch of his eyelid, every bead of sweat on his brow. “Look at you,” the venom in his words could chew through steel. Neil snorts, “Nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble.”

This is it.

Billy’s going to cry like the pussy he is. Spineless. Pathetic. Weak. Disgusting. He tries for a breath but his lungs have packed up and left shop, apparently. Neil Hargrove is a loose cannon. His aggression knows no bounds, no limits. Billy thinks with a shudder that if the cucks at Hawkins High had the displeasure of meeting his father, they’d think he was a walk in the fuckin’ park by comparison. 

Neil chuckles again. “You like this girl, son?”

Billy’s stomach flattens like a punctured balloon. “Tammy? Yes sir.” Steve’s bambi eyes flash across his memory, brilliant color against a dark sky. “Very much.”

He hopes it's enough. A date with Tammy Thompson, a party where he could get her drunk, kiss her neck, maybe even convince her to spend the night with him--that could fix Billy’s _problem._ Cure his disease. He hopes Neil buys it.

One.  
Two.

“Alright, boy, go to your little party.” Neil holds a finger right between his eyes. 

“But one day you _will_ slip up. You’ll see some little twink with a pretty mouth and you’ll slip. Revert back to your natural inclination to perversion. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe someday. Who's to say? And then when you’re far away from here and you’re free, you’ll think, ‘the bastard can’t hurt me anymore.’ And when you do, William, soon as that thought crosses the threshold into that _pathetic_ little blond head of yours, I’ll be there. Ready to kill you myself.”

  
\--

Max tries for conversation a few times on the drive to West Hawkins but Billy’s preoccupied with the churning in his stomach. After Neil disappeared into the house, Billy’s knuckles found the base of an oak tree and he just blacked out.

Lost control.

Now he’s smoking through a pack of reds, eyes on the road, trying to ignore the throbbing in his good hand. At least nothing’s broken.

He’s sure this is God’s way of punishing him for what happened in the locker-room yesterday. The shower, the pink skin of Harrington’s face. Sleeping stars and honey-kissed freckles. Billy knows better. He _knows_ , he does, and he should have just gone home. Kept his head low. 

Any interaction with Steve Harrington will only add to the debt Billy can’t pay. 

“Why were you going Hulk on that tree when I came out?” Max’s voice sounds combative even though he knows she doesn’t mean it. She’s just worried. But he’s tired, he’s fucking exhausted, and he can’t muster the strength to do anything other than let the throbbing fill his body. Turn his bones to steel pipes.

He grins. “The tree and I have a secret handshake, dipshit.” 

“Billy, come on--”

“Can you just shut the hell up, Maxine? For once?” The warmth settles in his toes this time, and in a way it’s almost better. It masquerades as relief, as a silver lining. Like maybe there’s hope. Maybe he doesn’t have to leave their night like this. “Jesus Christ you just--you push, you keep pushing and one of these days I’m gonna fuckin’ snap, kid.”

He feels his foot grow heavy on the accelerator, filled with lead, and the Camaro’s speedometer levels out at 55 MPH. Max has this strange look in her eyes, like she’s not so much scared of Billy as she is for him, and that does little to douse the fire in his veins.

The flame grows until he can feel it in his hair, licking through his scalp.

“You said we were gonna have a good night, Billy,” His vision tunnels, he can’t stop it. “We were gonna trick-or-treat, watch movies.”

He can stop this. He doesn’t have to take it out on Max. Stretch, release. 

His mouth runs away without him. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, bitch-ster.” _65, 70, 75._ He keeps pressing on the gas until Max puts on her seatbelt, hands shaking. “You’re going to tell Neil I was with you all night, and then at 9:30 _sharp_ , you’re going to beg one of those dusty little boys’ parents for a ride home, got it?”

In the distance four kids on bicycles turn onto Hollybrook road. He notes their dorky outfits, four ghostbusters for fucks-sake, and then recognizes one of the twerps from that night at the arcade. Midnight, the kids call him. 

“Well, speak of the devil,” He says, and jerks the camaro into their lane.

 _80, 90._ Max screeches, “What the fuck Billy, you're gonna hit them.”

“What, these your new hick friends?"

Mac tries for indifference and falls flat on her face. "What? I don't even know those kids."

Billy doesn't like being lied to. "So then, you won't mind if I hit them, right?" She's silent, mouth slack in an expression of horror. "We got a deal, Maxine?"

 _95._ The Camaro snarls, tire against gravel. The sound is deafening. He can feel it likes its coming from inside himself.

Max's voice hitches. “Billy, you’re gonna kill them!”

He chokes out a laugh, tosses his cigarette through the open window and clutches the wheel with both hands. Kentucky derby style.

"Bonus points if I get all four in one go."

The figures rush through time and space. They grow closer and closer, now having noticed the car isn’t slowing down.

And he swears he can hear their hearts stop, taste their final thoughts on his tongue.

Billy’s mind is racing. He’s never felt so alive, so radiant with power.

It’s blinding.

He can choose whether to take life or spare it at this moment. For five seconds, he’s King.

Billy closes his eyes.

Max grabs the wheel and the Camaro screeches to the other lane, a puff of smoke obscuring his view. Missing the kids by an inch.

The four boys stall in the middle of the road and disappear, like everything else, from his view through the windshield.

He lights another cigarette. 

“Do we have a deal, Max.”

She bursts into tears, sagging against the passenger door. Her sobs grow heavy and dry as she fights waves of panic.

Billy takes that as a yes.

\--

As soon as the camaro’s front tires kiss Tommy’s driveway, Billy makes up his mind to get shitfaced.

Fucking obliterated.

Under normal circumstances he’d give responsibility a fair shot, Neil and all that, but his nerves are fried. Nonexistent. 

His hands shake as he attempts to relight his cigarette.

Neil knows. Can see it all over Billy’s face, written on his forehead in black marker. _Faggot_. Thralls of people move in and around the house and he thinks none of this would have happened if it weren’t for Steve Harrington and his valiant nature and his stupid sad eyes. 

Billy watches him walk toward the party, arm protective around Nancy Wheeler's shoulders and thinks, It’s my last night on Earth, anyway. He readjusts his rear mirror to get a better look at himself.

Doesn’t look like he’s been crying at all. Billy runs a hand through his hair, tries for ‘effortlessly windblown,’ or something similar and pastes on a look of indifference. Of mild boredom.

Through the windshield Nancy whispers something in Steve’s ear. He smiles, the shine of it reaching heaven, and leans down to kiss her forehead. 

Billy climbs out of the car. Undoes his shirt halfway, sucks smoke into his lungs. 

Tommy explodes from the front door, beer in hand. “Hargrove,” He’s obviously drunk. “Get your ass up here, ombre!” A group of girls pass by and one whistles. 

“Looking good, Billy.” 

And that’s all it takes to flip the switch in his brain. Suddenly he’s vibrating with confidence. He lifts an eyebrow and lets his feet carry him forward, into the party, past Harrington and his open-mouthed expression.

Tommy slings an arm around Billy’s shoulders. “Keg stand?”

He smirks. _It’s my last night. Why not let it fly?_ “Keg stand.”

\--

Shit seems to be slowing down. Like somebody’s hit the pause button and is studying the frames one by one. Inching them across the screen. but Billy can’t be sure. His head spins while he gulps mouthful after mouthful of cheap beer. From inside the house he sees Steve watching him, planted under a swirl of Christmas lights. The color saturates his skin and makes everything look psychedelic.

Like Billy’s been dropping acid instead of getting drunk.

“39, 40, 41, 42,”

Suddenly, the world flops right side up, jerking viciously, and Billy spits what’s left in his mouth up into the atmosphere. It falls back down again like rain. He tips his head back.

“Yeah, that’s how you do it, Hawkins!” 

“Keg King,” Tom’s voice is suddenly way too loud and Billy can’t figure out where it’s coming from. A cigarette is jammed between his fingers. Billy sucks on it gratefully, smoke filling his lungs. “We got a new Keg King, everybody!” 

The crowd roars a response; “Billy, Billy, Billy!”

 _Huh._ Who knew so many people were watching. 

Billy stumbles forward, clumsy as a baby deer, and waits for the high to level out. Waits for his vision to stop being so goddamn fuzzy. But it’s like trying to find level footing on a ground made of graham cracker dust so he just bobs his head to the music that’s coming from everywhere, from inside his body, he thinks.

_‘Cause I’m T.N.T, I’m dynamite_   
_T.N.T, and I’ll win the fight..._

He walks through the front door and into a swirl of sweaty bodies. Billy reaches out a hand, snagging a wad of toilet paper that’s somehow materialized from his dreams. He rubs the soft cotton against his face as he spots Steve across the room, tipping his cup, cool as a fucking heart-attack.

James Dean _for real_.

Suddenly he’s moving again, drawn to the kid like a moth to the flame. Tommy’s voice booms in Billy’s ear again and he flinches. _Where the fuck does that keep coming from?_

“Hey, Harrington. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new Keg King.”

Marcus pipes up, “Yeah, eat it, Harrington!”

Steve just nods his head. Billy wishes he wasn’t wearing those stupid sunglasses. Wishes he could see the kid’s eyes, for fucks sake. “Saw,” Steve says. 

And Billy doesn’t like that one bit.

Through the haze he feels the familiar gnaw of anger against his sternum. So Harrington ruins his life, gets Billy blackballed by his own father, and then can’t scrounge up the balls to utter more than a pathetic single-syllable word.

Nancy evaporates, peels herself away from Steve’s side like she wasn’t meant to be there in the first place. Her small frame is instantly swallowed by the crowd.

Billy gets in Steve’s face. “I’m King now.” See me.

Harrington’s fingers tug the sunglasses down until they’re gone and Billy sees that he looks tired. Completely spent, like he’s not in the mood to deal with any shit tonight. Like he’s had his fill. “Here’s an idea,” Tongue against lips, “Why don’t you get lost?”

Billy laughs. It’s a weak attempt, he’ll admit. But it fuels him, sets him ablaze. When Steve pushes back. He rolls his shoulders, sucks his teeth. 

“See, I don’t think I will.”

Something in Harrington’s eyes goes cold. He’s all business. “I’m not fucking around, Hargrove. Get lost.”

Billy feels a gentle tug at his shoulder. He rips his eyes away from Steve, mostly out of curiosity, to find the girl from before. The one who whistled. She’s pretty, all red hair and green eyes, and she’s nervous. He can tell.

“What?” Billy tries to make his voice smooth but her cheeks are suddenly pink. He smiles and tries again, “...Can I do for you, baby?” 

She returns his smile with a flourish. “Care to dance, handsome?”

To be honest dancing is the last thing on Billy’s list, succeeds slicing Harrington’s ears off. But when he looks back Steve’s eyes are drooping with sadness, just a little, and Billy wants to make it better. Feels responsible. Wants to apologize and wrap Harrington in a warm blanket and kiss the pain away. 

That last thought is all it takes. He pockets one final drag from his cigarette and hands the stubby thing to Harrington, who grips it between his slim fingers. 

“Hold this for me?” Billy tries for poison and instead ends up with it. Becase Steve nods.

And just like that, Billy is whisked into the swaying wall of bodies, a pretty girl on his arm.

\--

_Who's gonna tell you when it's too late?_   
_Who's gonna tell you things aren't so great?_

Billy swallows and wraps his hands around the girl's waist, sways to the beat. He can’t exactly remember her name even though he’s sure she said it before, (Margaret? Diane?), and she melts in his touch. Like warm butter. Looks up at him with these ridiculous sparkly eyes and rests her head on his chest.

_You know you can’t go on_   
_Thinking, nothing’s wrong. But babe_   
_Who’s gonna drive you home tonight?_

Steve and Nancy are arguing. He feels it in his bones before it even starts, before she gets shitfaced on fizzy punch and pulls him aside. It's like a storm cloud on a bright summer day. Inevitable, sucking the air from the room. 

_Who's gonna pick you up when you fall?_   
_Who's gonna hang it up when you call?_

They’re nestled in a corner by the front door and he can’t look away, no matter what. Not when Nancy flails her arms. Not when Steve’s lip starts to quiver. 

Not when Margaret-Diane-Clarissa lifts her head and kisses Billy’s throat. 

_Who's gonna pay attention to your dreams?_   
_Who's gonna plug their ears when you scream?_

Steve tries to put his arm around Wheeler, tries to make amends, and Billy can hear his voice. See his desperation. She shrugs out of his grasp and pushes him away.

_You can't go on_   
_Thinking, nothing's wrong. Oh love_   
_Who's gonna drive you home tonight?_

Harrington is left staring after her in shock, and there it is. One fat tear snakes its way down the length of Steve’s nose and Billy can’t take it. It’s like the floodgates open up inside him and he can’t stay away, can’t mind his business, can’t kiss his girl. Every atom in his body screams at him to move.

So he does.

“Billy?” Margaret. He’s 40% sure. Her voice is small and it pins Billy in place for a fraction of a second, but he just shakes his head and says, “I gotta get home, baby.”   
She feigns sadness, and Billy can’t just leave her there. People will talk. So he kisses her on the mouth, sweetly, and says, “Call me?” just to keep up appearances. 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Steve has escaped out the back door, so he follows. Moth to Flame. Aware how much it’s going to hurt to touch it, but not really caring.

Steve’s drunk, way drunker than Billy, and he’s crying. Big, fat, ugly sobs. And Billy doesn’t really know what to do so he just says, “Can I have my smoke back, princess?”

Harrington’s look is disbelieving. He’s making these huffy little noises. Slurping in the cool air. “Are you fucking serious, man?” His voice is small. And Billy is, so he just cocks his head to the side.

“Like a fucking heart attack.” 

Steve’s on his feet in a flash, hands landing on Billy’s chest, shoving with such intensity that Billy would have hit the ground if he weren’t already expecting it. 

“I don't have your cigarette. What don’t you get about leaving me alone,” There’s so much heat behind it that Billy feels his skin sizzle, charred up with third degree burns. “You’re always there, always pushing.” Max's face flashes across his mind, pale and wet with tears. He feels like shit.

Harrington’s crying again. “And I just, I can’t--please, Billy, just. Stop.”

_Who's gonna hold you down when you shake?_   
_Who's gonna come around when you break?_

He swallows. So, Steve got his heart broken.

And there’s nothing he can do about it except slap a hand on Harrington’s shoulder and say, “Plenty of bitches in the sea, am I right?” He readies himself for the punch, the shove.

Steve laughs. Billy doesn’t expect him to but he does, and it’s genuine. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. Harrington wipes his sleeve across his face and says, clumsily, “Can we go somewhere?”

_You know you can't go on thinking, nothing's wrong_   
_Oh baby_   
_Who’s gonna drive you home tonight?_


	5. Aphasia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) The one where two cars crash on a busy intersection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Every story has its chapter in the desert, the long slide from kingdom to kingdom through the wilderness. Where you learn things. Where you're left to your own devices."

Billy tries to mask the look of confusion that brushes against his features. 

Steve’s standing in front of him, swaying side to side, eyes closed. He sniffs and says again, louder this time; “Let’s go somewhere, Billy.” 

They’ve never used first names before. The syllables sound alien as they roll off Steve’s tongue and into the air. They kiss Billy’s ears, delicate like butterfly wings. He decides he never wants to hear anyone else say his name. 

“Okay, um,” He tries, and Steve’s eyes flutter open. They’re puffy around the edges. “W-where do you want to go?” 

Harrington scrunches his mouth, thoughtful. “I don’t know, I didn’t get that far,” He’s suddenly beetroot, sheepish. “The words just kinda, _came_ out.”

Right. The alcohol. Billy’s mind grapples.

“Okay, we could go to the quarry, m-maybe grab some beers--”

The color drains from Steve’s face. “No, no I can’t go to the woods. Right now. Just. Not at night.” His voice shakes and Billy winces. Thinks if the kid’s gonna cry again he’ll probably die from embarrassment. 

But Steve doesn’t cry. Just exhales and pats the side of his head. Wags a finger. “Yeah, best not do that.”

Billy hates to admit it but he needs a cigarette. They’ve never had a conversation like this before. Hell, they’ve never had a conversation _period_. Not a real one, at least, and definitely not one that involves tears and first names. It’s awkward. 

It’s _painfully_ awkward. He pats down his thighs, searching, trying to snag a lighter while the cig hangs loosely from his lips.

“Yeah, yeah okay, man. No worries,” And Steve seems to relax a little, like maybe he thought Billy was going to force him or something. _Where is that damn lighter?_

Steve shrugs, considering. “You could, uh, you--” He’s got his eyes on Billy’s mouth again, only he’s beer drunk so there’s no subtlety. Billy lights his smoke. “My house. It’s open.” 

His chest contracts painfully. “What do you mean?”

Harrington shrugs again. He’s digging his toe into the gravel of Tommy’s driveway like he’s searching for buried treasure. “My parents, they travel a lot. For work. House is always open.”

The way Steve says it; flat. Empty, _House is always open_ , tugs at something in Billy’s ribs. Steve looks up at him through those puffy red eyes and he has to ask, because it’s Steve. 

“What happened?”

It’s like a switch is flipped. Harrington’s tone is aggressive as he says, “What do you mean, what happened?” 

“With Wheeler,” Billy can hardly say her name. “What did she say to you, y’know, what happened?” 

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want to share feelings?” He tries for humor but just ends up spitting knives. “Should have brought my diary.”

And in a split second Billy’s _so_ over this shit. 

“Come on, Harrington. We butt heads all year and, what, now you wanna ‘go somewhere with me?’” Billy lights another cigarette just to keep his hands busy. Otherwise they’d make short business of tearing the hair from his scalp. “Now all of a sudden we’re friends or something?”

He feels dirty. Like some sort of insurance plan. A safety blanket for the pretty boy to wrap himself up in once he’s had to settle his debts. Weak. Disgusting. Billy smokes his cigarette and waits for Steve to say something. 

The seconds tick by. Billy wishes he were still in California. Wishes he’d never laid eyes on the kid whose touch landed them here, in Hawkins. He scrubs a hand across his face, “Alright man, you know what? I can think of a hundred other things I’d rather be doing.”

Billy stamps out his smoke and walks toward the house. 

Steve sighs. “Okay, look.” Waits for Billy to turn around. Patience. He’s always admired that in a man. 

“We’re not friends, Billy. We aren’t, okay? You terrorize the hell out of me three out of five school days. And the other two you pretend like I’m not alive and I’ll be honest with you; sometimes I can’t figure out which is worse.” _Stretch-release._

The breath catches in Billy’s throat. Steady now. “You almost done or should I start paying rent now?”

Steve’s cheeks flush. His eyes move past Billy’s face. 

In the cool night air he can hear everything. Not the big things, like the noise from the party, so much as the little things. The tiny things, sounds that could be overlooked if you aren’t searching for them.

The _tick-tick_ of Harrington's watch. The soft huffs from his throat. 

“Look, I just need to be distracted for a while, I can’t just go home to an empty--” Steve stops and then starts again, slower this time. “You don’t have to talk or spend the night or anything, just. Could you have a couple beers with me, Hargrove?”

Steve stares at him. And then, finally, “Unless you’re chicken shit?”

Back to normal. Somewhat. Billy feels his shoulders relax for the first time all night. He laughs, much to his surprise. This evening is full of them, apparently. “Free beer?” Steve nods. 

A smile slices Billy’s face open and it hurts. “Then by all means. Lead the way, amigo.”

\--

As it turns out, standing awkwardly in the living room while Steve roots through the fridge just puts Billy back on edge.

It’s a nice place, all pastel walls and plush, cream colored furniture and it’s so foreign. So completely _not_ what he’s used to that Billy just ends up praying for an out.

He could leave, make up something about Neil riding his case. 

It _is_ the truth, though, and he knows it’s the cowards way but the evening just keeps getting stranger, heavy and light at the same time. Billy feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff and one wrong step could mean the end of the world, at least as he knows it. 

_I gotta run, my old man’ll kill me._

The words die on his lips as Steve emerges with a can of cheese-wiz and two beers.

“Not exactly a gourmet meal, but it’s something.” He’s smiling like there’s no tomorrow, and Billy thinks maybe there isn’t. Maybe he could unwind a little, enjoy himself, without obsessing over every detail. 

Billy cracks open his beer and gulps, suddenly famished. “Nice pile of bricks you got here, Harrington.” God, he sounds like such a dweeb.

Steve shrugs his shoulders, hiking them all the way up to his ears and back down again. “That’s all it is, really. Just a pile of bricks.” He shuffles his feet. “So, what do you wanna...I mean, we could, like, watch T.V.?”

Billy imagines the two of them sat together on the couch in the dark. Him pretending not to notice the warmth of Steve’s thigh while the kid laughs at _Letterman_ or something equally dull. No, definitely not.

Steve blinks. “Or we could sit outside? It’s pretty warm, for October?” 

“Yeah,” Billy says, weakly, “Yeah, okay.” And Steve leads him through the house and out the back door. 

The Harrington's backyard is unlike anything Billy’s ever seen in Hawkins. Lush, green despite the approach of winter, and there’s a pool. Complete with velvet lounge chairs and a gazebo, for God’s sake. Billy peers through the gloomy night air, past the security fence and into the scruffy trees that lie just beyond. 

Thinks he sees something move, something big.

Billy shakes his head. Must be the beer. They sprawl across a couple of the loungers and Billy notes how soft the cushions are. “I gotta say, man. If this were my house I’d never want to leave.” 

Steve seems on edge and Billy’s grateful that he’s not the only one. “The quiet gets to be a little deafening sometimes,” His voice is far away. He clears his throat. “Where do you live, anyway?”

“Uh, over on Cherry Lane,” Home. Neil’s stern face slinks into his head, dampening the night air and making everything feel sour. Hard. Steve’s eyebrows wrinkle. 

“Down by Maple? Isn’t that near the tracks? That's the side of town--”

Billy’s forehead throbs. “The shithole, yeah, I get it. Doubt a rich, pretty boy like you’s ever made it past Park Street.” He downs another gulp of beer.

Steve looks at him through squinted eyes. “I was going to say that’s where the industry lives, but yeah,” he grins. “It’s kind of a shit hole.”

Billy chuckles in spite of himself and is surprised by how easy this is. The two of them drinking beer, talking like they’re friends. Like they’ve been doing it for years. He chances a look at Steve and finds him staring. Full on staring, for real this time. Billy’s eighty percent sure. 

He just looks back, polishes off the rest of his can. And then he opens his mouth. “Listen, about that night at the arcade--”

Steve’s expression sputters, gives way. “It’s fine, Billy.”

Only, it isn’t. “No, I gotta say this--” Billy’s head feels heavy and warm, like somebody’s removed his brain and replaced it with oven mitts. He sets the empty can on the ground between them and tugs at his hair until it hurts. 

Harrington mirrors his stance exactly. “Listen, it’s fine. Max is your little sister, I know how that can be.”

Max isn’t what Billy wants to apologize for and it catches him off guard. He tries for humor. “You have a pissy little sister too?” Steve smirks. Billy has the incessant urge to make him do it again. “Shit, let’s get together and swap notes sometime, yeah?”

Steve bobs his head from side to side. “Not exactly. Nance has a little brother, Mike,” Billy’s ears burn as fondness reverberates from Harrington’s throat. “Good kid. He just never listens. Like, ever.”

As usual, everything leads back to Wheeler. Billy thinks maybe the fondness is for Mike this time. 

Steve chuckles, “The kid doesn’t like me, though I guess that runs in the family.” And scrubs at his face. “Anyway, he wanted to ride across town with his friends tonight. Be young and shit. Nance was _sure_ something would happen to them. They’d get hurt, or worse.”

Billy wonders how a kid could find sudden death in a place like Hawkins, but the look on Steve’s face makes him shrink. Tug his jacket a little closer to his body. 

“And I hate to admit it, but their costume was kind of cool. Four ghostbusters, can you believe that”

The words make Billy’s skin go cold. He’s transported to the Camaro, the warmth filling his toes. _Do we have a deal, Max?_

Suddenly, he’s on his feet. Steve jumps. “Jesus, what the fuck, man?” But Billy hardly notices. His bones are shaking, the marrow swirling and rearranging itself. 

Four kids on bikes, Max’s voice is loud in his head.

_Billy, you’re gonna kill them._

He’s gotta get the fuck out of here. “What time is it?” His voice is aggressive and Steve looks lost, upset, and Billy can’t stop his voice from pitching. “NOW, princess.”

Harrington checks his watch. “12:30.”

Billy mutters some lame excuse about having to get up early the next day and thanks Steve for the beer. His feet carry him forward, Harrington’s lounger scraping across the ground as he stands.

“Wait, hey, I’ll walk you out.”

Billy stares at him. Harrington's fingers trail up his arm and clutch at his elbow in a gesture of self comfort. Insecurity. Steve’s eyes are big and crazy, desperate, and Billy realizes that Harrington wants him to stay. Everything about the kid’s expression begs him to. 

And Billy almost cracks. Nearly puts his hands on Steve’s cheeks, kisses his mouth.

But he doesn’t. “I think I can find my way,” Billy hopes his voice isn't too uneven. “See you ‘round, Harrington.”

He jogs, really runs like he's being chased, around the side of Steve’s house and flings himself into the Camaro. His heart is pounding against his ribs so hard he’s sure it’ll bruise. 

Four ghostbusters, a gravel road. Steve’s airy voice was so sweet, so full of pride over the Wheeler kid.

His mind races.

_Billy, you’re gonna kill them._

He puts the car in reverse and pulls onto the road, oblivious of Steve’s concerned figure watching from the window. 


	6. Dogfight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) in which we finally start getting to the Good Stuff ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're in a car with a beautiful boy and he's trying not to tell you he loves you. But he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible. Like swallowed pills or shoved a grave in the dirt. You're in a car with a beautiful boy and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling. But he reaches over and he touches you. Like a prayer for which no words exist. And you feel your heart taking root in your body like you've discovered something you didn't even have a name for."
> 
> The song used in this chapter is:
> 
> "There is a Light That Never Goes Out," by The Smiths. All rights reserved.

When Billy sneaks in sometime after 1:30 (because he needed a drive and a joint), Max is asleep on the couch. Still fully clothed, The Michael Meyers mask clinging to her scalp like some sort of screw-y hat.

Billy carries Max back to her room, unties her shoes. Tucks her in.

He figures he kind of owes her one.

At breakfast the next morning she tells Neil and Susuan how much fun they had trick or treating. Even makes up some bullshit story about Billy defending her honor against a rag-tag group of assholes. 

Their parents are thrilled. Susan kisses him on the cheek and smiles for the rest of the day.

Even Neil seems to be in a favorable mood because he smirks over his cup of joe and asks, “And how was your party, son?”

The memory of Steve Harrington’s velvet loungers cloud Billy’s vision. Puffy red eyes on Billy’s mouth. Huffy little breaths and tear-stained cheeks.

He has to manually reboot. “Fine, sir.” And then, because he was meant to be with Tammy Thompson, “She kissed me.”

Neil doesn’t ask any more questions. 

Billy spends the rest of the weekend waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Max won’t talk to him but he kind of expected that. Is maybe grateful for it, just a little. 

He cleans his room, maneuvering around the tattered furniture that somehow survived the trip from Cali. Stacks things into neat piles. Dusts the picture of his mother, reads, and then writes a verse that’s been stuck in his head all day.

_And I swear, he hung the moon._

It’s not like Billy writes poetry. He doesn’t. Letting long thoughts rest and ruminate, however, just takes up valuable space in his brain. It’s good to get the words out. Especially when the ones about Steve weigh so much. 

He never liked poetry before he and Max started sharing books. She digs it. Blows through, cover to cover, with impressive times. Billy’s always been more of a fiction kinda guy, especially the classics, but he thinks between the two of them they have half-decent taste.

 _The Catcher in the Rye_ has been her favorite.

 _Crush_ has been his.

Billy and Max share books, no matter what. Even if they’ve just had an argument. Regardless of how vicious, how guttural they may have been, Billy will finish a book and leave it outside her door. Don’t have to interact, just read. The next morning they’ll discuss the first chapter.

They’ve been reading together since Neil and Susan’s wedding, through their first fight, into the eye of all Billy’s rages. He wonders if Max will keep sharing her books, or if this time’s different.

_Billy, you’re gonna kill them._

He tries not to think about it. But, four hours and one pack of Reds later Billy’s lifting weights with the stereo on blast and he starts to worry.

The kid hasn’t pestered him once. Not to ask for a ride to the arcade, not to complain about the music, not even to call him a shit head. She’s usually over it by now.

He pumps his arms one more time and lets the weight drop on its rack with a _clang._

The house is silent when Billy pokes his head into the hallway. The T.V’s off, which means Neil and Susan have stepped out for the afternoon. He lopes toward the living room and sure enough, there’s a note left on the coffee table. In Neil’s scratchy handwriting, Billy finds his job for the day:

_Gone to evening service, WATCH YOU’RE SISTER._

Figures. Billy crumples the note and wonders how he can be related to someone who doesn’t know the difference between your and you’re.

It makes him feel good, to have something over on the old man.

He heads toward Max’s room. Raps on the door with his knuckles. There’s an endless stretch where Billy thinks Max is gone, that maybe she ran away and he begins to sweat. Prepare his organs. _How do you lose a whole thirteen year old girl?_

But then there’s a line of static like someone’s flipping through the radio. So quiet Billy almost misses it over the rush in his ears. His fist sounds like a machine gun as he tries to get Max’s attention.

“Hey, dipshit, open the door.” He waits. Nothing.

And Billy so doesn't have time for this. 

_Bang, bang, bang._

“Come on, Maxine, you gotta let me know you’re in there. I’m your court-ordered babysitter, remember?” Silence. Billy groans, forehead against the cool oak surface. “It’s my funeral if something happens to you, alright?” Nothing.

There’s only one way Max will respond. He’s gotta grovel. 

Billy tugs a hand through his hair. “Alright, listen up kid. I’m gonna fucking say it, but I’m only gonna say it _once_ , okay? And I mean once and that’s it. Forever.”

He thinks he hears the floorboards creak, Max shuffling up to the door. Billy swallows thickly. “About what happened yesterday. Neil can be kind of…” He searches his brain. “Strict. And it put me on edge, I guess, and I know I acted like an asshole, but Max--”

The handle starts to rattle and then turns slowly, catching on itself.

Billy steps back to give her room. He lifts his eyes as the door swings open and. Nothing.

There’s nobody there. 

_Holy shit._ He feels every hair on his body elevate, frozen in surrender. Can’t convince his lungs to work even though he knows this is just Max playing a prank on him. 

He’s gonna kick her ass.

Billy takes one step forward, then two, until he stands, centered on the rug with his back to the door. Max’s room looks normal, considering. Blue duvet, stack of books on the bedside table. 

Max is nowhere in sight and Billy thinks maybe he imagined the whole thing.

But then he hears it. The clicking. 

Suddenly Billy exhales and his breath puffs out in a cloud of white steam. The skin on his forearms breaks out in gooseflesh as he notices the atmosphere. Something’s wrong.

From the sunlight in the window, Billy can see dust. Not floating, dancing in the light like usual but frozen. Suspended in the air like somebody pressed pause. 

He reaches out a trembling hand--

“Billy, what the fuck are you doing in my room?” 

He turns on her. “I, uh, there was--fuck,” Max doesn’t seem to notice if anything’s off so he bluffs. Doesn’t know if he can trust her. “I need more smokes, do you want a ride somewhere?”

Max tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and clicks her tongue. “The arcade would be nice. I don’t have any money, though.” She stares at him, expectant.

And Billy knew this sorry was going to cost him. 

“I have a ten,” He grits, “That enough?”

Max smiles. 

Before he knows it he’s parked in front of the arcade, a smoke dangling from his lips. Max reaches for the car door and says, “See you at 6:30.” Billy clears his throat.

“Max, wait.” She turns to him, confused. He just wants things to go back to _normal_. “Look, I was in your room because, listen I just wanted to say--”

“It’s okay, Billy.” Max’s face is peachy with embarrassment. “I kind of...heard everything.”

And before he can come up with a snarky response, a reset, she’s climbing out and slamming the door behind her. Billy leans out the window as she walks around the fender and shouts, “Watch it!” He tries for venom but Max just smiles.

 _Grins._ Billy wonders why everyone is being so nice to him all of a sudden, giving a shit. Understanding.

He’s not sure he prefers it.

\--

Harrington’s pathetic.

By Monday afternoon word’s already spread about what happened at Tommy’s Party. Billy hears the highlight reel all through second and third period;

“I heard Nancy’s moving to Michigan, that’s why they broke up.”

“No, somebody almost hit Wheeler’s little brother with their car on Saturday. I heard it was one of Steve’s friends.”

And finally, “Nancy’s in love with Jonathan Byers. It’s obvious.”

By lunch Billy’s gotta get away. His head’s throbbing, right on the verge of combustion. Hearing Steve and Nancy’s names together in the same sentence after seeing the kid _cry_ , for fucks sake. 

Billy can’t handle it.

He’s smoking a cigarette in the Camaro when the passenger door swings open. Billy goes to douse the smoke, afraid it’s school security, but is met instead with the soft brown of Harrington’s eyes. He nearly chokes to death.

After he’s done coughing (much to his horror) Billy fixes Steve with a steely gaze. “Oh, hell no.”

Steve makes prayer hands, “Please, I can’t eat in the cafeteria, I usually sit with Nance and--”

Billy sucks his teeth. “There you go again, assuming I give a shit.” He begrudgingly relights the cigarette even though it sits kind of crooked. Steve doesn’t move. 

And then, quietly, “Please, man. You’re the only person I can count on not to give a shit.” Billy almost laughs with the irony of it all. He decides not to when Harrington says, meanly, “Jesus, man, you ever not smoking?”

Not really, Billy thinks, and holds it out. “Want?”

Harrington considers this for half a second before he sticks the thing between his lips and sucks. Steve ticks his head back, lets his eyes slip closed. _And moans_. And Billy’s definitely always wondered what that would sound like. He’s grinning before he can stop himself.

Steve gapes. “What?”

“Nothing,” Billy says. He wills his body to control itself. “Just, never seen you smoke before.”

“I don’t, not anymore.” Harrington’s cheeks hollow as he takes another drag, he leans his head back and looks at Billy through his eyelashes. “Only on special occasions.”

Billy's cheeks are red. He knows they are, and it’s pathetic. 

Steve is having a bad day, going through something worse than anything Billy’s ever put him through and still, Harrington came. Found him at lunch. Wanted to see him. 

_Moth to flame_ , The fag and the straight boy. Sounds like a bad joke.

Billy tries not to think about it.

Steve shuffles around in the passenger seat and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Just sharing the smoke and watching people through the window. They finish the cigarette and Billy lights another one. 

“Why did you leave so soon?” Steve asks quietly.

He’s still not used to it. Talking to Harrington like this, about their night together. About Nancy. Billy shrugs his shoulders. “I told you, I had to get home. Early morning and all that.”

“Bullshit.” Steve’s eyes are serious. He flicks his tongue, wets his lips. “I had a hard time sleeping.”

And Billy’s confused. “What, you expected me to tuck you in?”

But Steve’s expression is unwavering. He’s looking through Billy, like he can see him from the inside first. “No, of course not.” There’s something in his voice Billy can’t quite place.

“Good. Because, I’m not a faggot, you know?” Billy doesn’t know why he says it and he regrets the words as soon as they make impact. 

Steve’s face closes like a cell door and he tosses the lit cigarette at Billy.

“Fuck off, Hargrove,” But Harrington’s heart isn’t in it. He opens the passenger door and clambers out. Billy think’s this is it, Steve’s never going to speak to him again. When the kid looks over his shoulder, though, he’s smiling.

Billy stares.

“Hey, so, I don’t know if you wanna…” Steve says, “I’m home tonight. Stop by.” It’s not a request so much as a demand. And then he’s gone. 

Billy grabs his backpack and heads for calculus, the world left crooked for the fifth time in a week.

\--

And he smiles for the rest of the day. 

Really, smiles like a fucking idiot. All through the afternoon, in the strangest and most inconvenient places, Billy will remember that he’s seeing Steve tonight and he’ll let his guard down.

Standing at the urinal, grinning. Or sitting in English, grinning. He’s really starting to think something is seriously wrong.

The whole day speeds by like Billy’s in a dream and suddenly he’s getting ready for practice and Harrington is smiling back at him. No aggression, no heat. Genuine.

Now Billy’s _really_ freaking out.

He doesn’t think anything could bring him down when he feels this good, but Coach has them work on cardio for the whole afternoon. The team’s saddled up with partners, doing suicides in the 75 degree heat when Nancy Wheeler appears and Steve just goes over and talks to her. Like nothing happened.

Tommy’s doing squat thrusts and Billy’s supposed to be counting but he gets distracted when Steve takes Nancy’s arm and they disappear from sight.

“Come on dude, what number am I on?” Tommy’s like a machine, _up down_. Billy pulls a number out his ass and the kid grins. It’s clearly an ego boost. “Why didn’t you stop me at twenty-five?”

Billy has to make a decision. He can let this thing with Nancy ruin his whole day, or he can rejoin the rest of society as a card-carrying, mentally stable adult. He winks and says, “Just looked good, Hagan.” 

Tommy laps it up. 

The next thing on the list is pushups and it’s Billy’s turn, so he just drops to the ground and works his muscles until he feels sweat running down the seam of his shoulder blades. Tommy’s cheering him on and Billy’s trying to let the sweat wash it away. Wipe and scrub it until it’s blank. Until there’s nothing left to be angry about.

He hits seventy and decides to stop. 

Steve is back and he looks angry. Furious. 

Which only makes Billy more upset. Because honestly, what good could come from speaking to Nancy-Fucking-Wheeler. The kid should have known better, should have been more cautious. Now Steve’s got those sad eyes and Billy wishes he could delete the feeling they give him.

Like he’s ready to punch a wall but also knit a sweater.

Billy decides not to let it bother him. Their last exercise is a group run, three miles, and as soon as Coach blows his whistle Billy’s off like a damn shot in the dark. 

Quick and lethal. 

He lets the pounding sensation of legs on asphalt carry him away. They hit one mile and Billy’s leading the team, air searing through his nose, through his lungs. 

The rest of the team is trailing a little behind and a voice pipes up in displeasure.

“Jesus, Hargrove, could you maybe slow down a little?” Steve. Billy squints his eyes and lets his feet do the work, lurching his body forward, picking up the speed.

He’s not much of a runner.

By the time they hit three miles Coach claps him on the back and lectures the rest of the guys about the importance of training. He drones on and on about diet, how Billy sets the example and the whole time Steve’s trying to catch his eye.

Pin him in place. Work his straight boy magic on Billy’s unfortunate soul. But he’s not giving in. Billy makes a decision to forgo anger and move straight to indifference.

He’s never done that before, but it feels right. To put himself first.

Whatever stupid little romance problem Steve’s having doesn’t concern him. Isn’t his cross to bear. Nancy isn’t Neil and Steve isn’t Max. 

It’s not his job to protect Steve’s heart. 

\--

Billy doesn’t know how, but he ends up at Harrington's front door. So much for putting himself first, huh?

It’s dark out. He’s been driving around for hours and he got beer at some point, he thinks, and he can’t remember _when_ but it’s a welcome guest at his pity party.

Somewhere along the road he dropped Max at home and got permission to go see, “Tammy Thompson,” and then got scared. So here he is, and Steve’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. 

Billy lifts a beer and says, with focus, “Fuck you, Steve Harrington.” 

And he means it, only Steve doesn’t look upset, just disappointed. He steps away from the door to let Billy in, who just walks head-first into the door frame like he’s blind.

Steve’s hand shoots out, steadies him. He’s looking at Billy like he’s waiting for a response but the thing is; Billy doesn’t remember. Doesn’t even think the kid said anything to begin with, just expects Billy to read minds. He can’t read minds, though.

“I can’t read minds, Steve.” And his face is wet. _Am I crying?_

“Are you crying?” Harrington sounds concerned and Billy is so he just allows Steve to lead him to the couch where he plops down on the cushions.

“Can you read minds, Stevie? Couch is soft,” He purrs, and Steve’s laughing at him. Billy rubs his head on a pillow and then throws it at Harrington, nails him in the head. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

The kid cracks up and Billy _loves_ that sound. Steve sits down next to him, all business. “Did you drive here?”

Billy’s looking for the remote. He wants to watch _Letterman_ , feel Steve’s warm thigh in the dark. “Yeah, think so,” he says, and Harrington turns the set on with his _finger_ or something. It’s like there’s ten people in the room and Billy feels more comfortable.

“Okay, well, you’re not leaving until you’ve sobered up, yeah?” Steve looks disappointed.

Billy feels like his face is wet again. “Are you mad at me?”

Harrington’s eyebrows knit together. “Mad at you? Why would I be mad, Billy?”

He’s suddenly starving. His feet move without his permission and then he’s wandering around Steve’s house looking for something, a room, but he can’t remember what. 

Billy feels a hand on his shoulder and nearly shits his pants. 

Steve soothes him, “It’s just me, Billy. You’re alright.” And he takes a shuddery breath. “You hungry?”

Billy’s head vibrates, _up and down._ Steve’s smile is blinding. He looks cautious, unsure. And Billy thinks if only he’d behaved like that with Nancy. Could have saved them both a lot of trouble. 

Harrington splays his hands. “Okay, we’re kind of far away from the kitchen, so I’m gonna just,” Billy feels Steve grab his hand and suddenly he’s sober. Like someone flipped a switch. “We’re gonna stay linked, okay? For safety. No man left behind.”

_For Safety._

He’s hyper-aware of the calloused skin on Steve’s fingertips, his thumb on Billy’s palm. 

Harrington tugs him down the stairs, and Billy thinks I’m drunk. Doesn’t even remember how he got up here.

Billy’s feet are shuffling on Steve’s beige carpet and he’s dizzy and he feels like a five year old, being led through a grocery store so he doesn’t touch anything.

He wants to yank his hand away, complain about it. Instead his mouth insists, “What happened with Nancy.”

Steve’s walking in front of him so Billy can’t see his face. “Why do you care?”

And Billy’s too drunk to be charming so he just says, “Come on, you can trust me.”

It surprises them both. Steve rounds on him as they enter the kitchen. It’s bright and warm and Billy feels like eating a cookie so he says, “You got any _Hostess_?”

Steve folds his arms. “You’re joking, right?”

But Billy isn’t. He doesn’t think that’s what Steve means but he’s very serious about _Hostess_. “No, I like the cupcakes. ‘Specially the chocolate ones.”

Harrington heads to the pantry and pulls out three of them. He unwraps the first and slides it across the counter. Billy shoves the whole thing in his mouth and tries something.

“Chubby bunny,” It sounds too clear so he holds out his hand, “Come on, give me another!”

Steve’s trying to look serious but there’s a smile in his eyes. 

“No, you get another after you answer a few questions.”

“Questions?” Billy hopes it’s not calculus. He hasn’t done today’s assignment. 

“Yeah, questions.” Steve shrugs his shoulders. “If we’re really gonna do this, you know, _be friends_?” Billy would like that. 

So, he swallows and tries to look mature. Normal. Sober. “Okay, shoot.”

Steve swallows, obviously not expecting to get this far. “Okay, um. Why are you here?”

And it stings. Billy doesn’t want to admit it, but it does. He swallows thickly. “What do you--you, uh, you invited me?” He wasn’t aware the invite was a joke.

Harrington suddenly looks like he’s going to cry. His eyes get all big and he gestures wildly with his hands and Billy feels like he’s gonna throw up. He’s over-stimulated. “No, no, hey that’s not what I meant,” Steve smiles shyly, “I mean, like, _why_.”

 _He doesn’t know, he can’t know._ Billy’s only just moved here. Sure, Hawkins is a shit hole, hicksville U.S.A., but can’t get their family run out of town. Not yet. Not before he’s gotten a chance to taste Steve’s mouth, his tongue.

No, Billy’s not getting thrown out when nothing’s even _happened_ yet. 

Apparently he’s been quiet for too long so Steve says, “Okay, we’ll start with something easier.” Billy can breathe again. 

“What’s your favorite color?” Steve asks. 

And Billy cracks up. Really, he grabs his sides and squeals like a little pig. Pretty soon Steve joins in and they laugh, deeply, painfully. Gulping thick breaths while the seconds tick by.

Steve wipes his eyes and says, casually, “If you’re staying I’m going to need a drink.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Not fair that only you get to have fun, right?”

Billy doesn’t even try to hide his smile.

\--

They end up outside, shooting hoops and talking shit. 

Maybe it’s just because this is where they sat last time and Billy has seen the glint of the moon on Steve’s hair in his _dreams_ , for gods-sake, every night for three days, but he feels comfortable. Like maybe he could belong in a world of beige carpet and pastel walls.

Steve’s shitfaced. Bouncing the ball and singing the words to a song Billy’s never heard before. He passes the rock and dances to a silent orchestra, rolling his hips and chanting: _“To die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die.”_

Billy likes that thought. It feels tangible. The world could end, right now, and Billy would be happy. Grateful. It’s a type of calm he’s never felt before and it sets him on edge just as much as anything else. 

He dribbles the ball and watches as Steve limbos, his voice pitching with the next line. _“And if a double decker bus kills the both of us...to die by your side, well the pleasure , the privilege is mine.”_

The kid’s goofy. Billy wants to kiss him, more than he’s ever wanted anything. 

“Whatcha starin’ at, Billy bob?” Steve shimmys, “I got moves.”

Billy rolls his eyes, “Not you, that’s for damn sure.” Steve pouts. “What’s that song you’re singing?”

Harrington brushes the hair back from his face and thinks. “What song, Billy Jean?”

 _He’s not serious._ Billy flings the ball at him. “What are you, a hundred? That song, the one you were just singing, dipshit.”

Steve grins, passes the ball back. “I dunno what you’re talking about, Billy goat.”

He feels like he’s been shot. Blond hair, eyes the color of muddy puddles. His mother always wore white. Like an angel.

_Billy goat, such a lonely boy._

He lets the ball drop. It bounces across the grass and Steve runs to get it, holding the thing above his head with a flourish. Then he sees Billy’s expression and falters. “Hey man, you okay?”

He’s gonna throw up. Billy’s feet move in reverse and then he’s running. Doesn’t know where, just on the move. _Gotta get out of here, gotta go._

Somewhere over his shoulder Steve is calling his name and Billy’s transported to his bedroom back in California. A rainy night, his mother’s voice on the line. She’d sounded so small. So far away.

Billy trips and falls to his knees and just, lets go. Throws up bile and it tastes like stale beer. Suddenly he feels hands on his neck, stroking through his hair, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Steve’s voice is gentle in his ear. “You’re all right, there you go.”

And then Billy’s crying. Like a pussy, just weeping in Steve’s arms, in the middle of the street at one in the morning. 

The kid just holds him, rubs his back. “You’re okay, Billy, I’m here.”

Somehow that makes it worse. He scrubs a hand across his face and shoves until Steve’s flat on his back. Billy stands, wobbly, and starts walking toward the Camaro.

There’s fingers on his arm, holding him in place. He can’t do it. Isn’t strong enough.

“Hey, woah, hey,” Steve’s panicked, confused. “Where are you, Billy, wait--” He rips his arm free and keeps walking. _Stretch release._

Kid doesn’t give up that easy. Figures. Steve plants himself in Billy’s path. “What the _fuck_ , you can’t just leave like this!”

“Move, Harrington.” Warmth. Everywhere, Billy’s burning up.

Steve’s eyes shine with something. Hurt.

“Why am I Harrington all of a sudden?” Steve’s voice quivers and Billy shakes his head, doesn’t have time for this. Steve locks his jaw. “Or what? What are you gonna do if I don’t, huh?”

He doesn’t want to say it, but he’s drunk and he’s upset and it just slips out.

“Move or I’ll--”

“OR YOU’LL WHAT.” Steve’s voice echoes off the trees. Billy flinches as Harrington gets in his face, “You won’t hurt me. As many times as you’ve threatened, as many times as you’ve thought about it, you can’t.”

It’s like the world has stopped moving around them. Steve’s got his hands balled in fists and his face is red with anger. 

“You can’t keep running away from me, Billy.” He swallows. “I can’t. Can’t take it.” 

Billy wants a smoke. Instead he makes his voice smooth, even.

“You’re drunk, Steve.”

Harrington doesn’t back up, and Billy feels like he’s trapped. Caged like an animal or something, and he doesn’t like it. 

Steve’s voice is a whisper. “No, don’t do that. You’re drunk. Stop being an asshole.” He puts two fingers on Billy’s chest and shoves. 

And he can’t stop it. 

He punches Steve right under his eye, knuckles connecting to bone. The kid groans, grabs at his face and Billy instantly regrets it. 

But he can’t touch him. So he just stands there, focuses on his breathing while Steve collects himself. Stands and rubs his jaw. 

“I think we should talk,” He says, and turns toward the house, expecting Billy to follow.


	7. Honeybee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) the line in the sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses. It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it's more like a song on a policeman's radio. How we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and how every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces.  
> Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable.   
> Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
> Tell me we'll never get used to it."

“Want another beer, or what?” 

Billy’s still shaking. Vibrating at the counter in Steve’s kitchen, eyes darting back and forth. They’re misty. Watering like a goddamn faucet. 

Full Disclosure? He’s crying. Might as well call it what it is. 

Billy hit Steve. He punched him right across the face and the kid’s got an ugly purple bruise blooming on his cheek. Just under his eye. Those eyes that pulled Billy under, drowned him, got him involved in things he shouldn’t be.

And Billy is freaking out. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” He says, and Steve rolls his eyes like the punch happened fifteen minutes ago. Like they should just move _on_ , already. 

“And I thought I was the dramatic one.” Steve opens the fridge and returns with two more beers, popping their caps, sliding one across the counter. The can rubs against Billy’s pinky, cool breath on feverish skin, so he drinks because what else is there to do? 

He hit Steve. Punched him. He’s just like Neil. Billy closes his eyes because, yeah. He’s going to throw up again.

But Steve’s still talking a mile a minute with this weird tone snagging the ends of his words. “Pack a hell of a punch, though.”

And Billy can’t take it anymore. Should have left when he had the chance. Run away like a coward, like always. 

A sound escapes his throat. Not quite a sob but similar. One in the same. He drags his sleeve across his face and says, thickly, “I’m never going to hit you again, Steve.”

“Jesus, Hargrove, would you just relax for a second?” 

“I can’t,” He says. Billy’s shaking his head, like maybe the feeling will erase what’s been done. 

Steve snorts. Really, _snorts_ like the whole situation is funny or something, and Billy’s mad again. Just like that his tears sear a line into the skin of his cheeks.

Steve’s got this bizarre look on his face that makes Billy’s stomach flip. “Are you serious? I’ve hit you before, Billy. Twice.” Then, gently; “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

They stare at each other for a minute, sizing each other up. Billy feels like they’ve crossed some sort of line. Like after they’ve cried and held hands for safety and gotten drunk and said ‘I’m sorry,’ things feel irreversible. Different. 

If it’s not obvious that Billy loves him yet the kid’s either blind or an idiot. 

“You’re an idiot, Harrington.” He says, and Steve laughs like he already knew.

\--

They end up on the couch. Billy’s had four or five beers in the last hour and the clock says _2:34_ , all judgmental. Like it’s disappointed in how the night’s turned out. 

They wipe their eyes, hushed voices and bated breath. It’s so late Billy feels like he’s at a sleepover. Hasn’t been to one of those in years, not since middle school. Not since the first boy.

Steve’s got a sweat band around his forehead and he’s doing his best terminator impression and Billy’s never laughed so much in his life. He’s smiling so hard it hurts. Feels like his heart might just scratch its way out of his chest.

His limbs feel light as fuck, and he knows he should be trying to resemble something of his usual self, of school Billy, but he’s drunk. _What can ya do?_

Steve’s got the hiccups, is making these cute little noises every few seconds, and keeps insisting they’ll go away if he drinks some more. 

And Billy’s having fun so he just lets him. Lets the kid lay on the floor while he takes up the couch, hyper-aware of Steve’s feet next to his head.

“What’s your color, Billy Willy?” He’s slurring. Billy has to sit up so he can focus because the ceiling is made of popcorn stucco and he keeps finding faces in the pattern.

“Probably blue, or maybe red.”

“Look nice in red,” Steve responds, voice heavy, “Like a prince.”

Billy’s heart pounds. He just sort of lets the comment hang in the air because he doesn’t want to ruin it. Not with a joke or an aggressive comment just, live in it for a moment. Let it fill his body with light. 

Finally, he says, “Thank you,” So quietly it’s barely audible. Then, “So do you like video games?”

Harrington shuffles until he’s laying on his side, head propped up on his wrist. Looking up at Billy with sparkly eyes. “Maybe, like, _Dig-Dug_ , or something.”

Billy nods, hopes it isn’t obvious that he has no clue what Steve’s talking about. “Oh, yeah. _Dug-Dig_.” Steve grins. Busted. Billy wets his lips and smiles back, allowing the effect Steve has on him to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s just, uh,” He’s nervous. Why is he so nervous? “That night, at the arcade--?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ve told you already, it’s fine.” 

But Billy’s not going to give up that easy. He feels the snarl of the Camaro beneath him, hears the screech of Max’s voice in his head. _Billy, you’re gonna kill them._

And he’s drunk and it’s eating him alive so he has to say it. Even if Steve hates him. 

“It’s just. I was there to pick up Max. Were you there for...um, the Wheeler kid?”

“Mike,” Steve sits up, crosses his legs. “And yeah. Nancy had to--” He closes his mouth with a snap. Billy’s suddenly aware that maybe Harrington isn’t trying to talk about Wheeler. Not tonight, at least, not now. He wishes he could take it back.

And sure enough, “Look, I know you mean well, Billy, but I don’t want to talk about her, okay?”

He can feel Steve’s hurt like it’s floating in the air, settling into his lungs. He opens his mouth to say something, anything that will change the subject, but Steve cuts him off.

“She’s not talking about me” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as Billy. “She’s not even thinking about me. She tossed me away like a sack of garbage. I’m not going to waste any more energy crying over her, alright?”

Billy feels his forehead wrinkle. Steve’s voice is blunt, matter of fact, and for a second Billy thinks maybe that’s all they’re going to say about it. But then a tear slides down Steve’s cheek and he leans back, long legs stretched out in front of him. 

The moment is endless; Steve crying. Billy watching, helpless, but not wanting to run away. Feels like he should be here for this. It’s foreign, different.

“Listen, man, you don’t gotta...not if you don’t--”

“Nancy made me feel like I was capable of love, you know?” The kid looks at him, stares right into Billy’s eyes and he’s really crying now but there’s nothing behind it. Just lazy tears over red cheeks. 

Steve looks at the floor. “I never knew I could, before her. Not even my parents, not really. It’s like, they’d leave on a trip or something and I wouldn’t hear from them for days. They’d be gone for like, two weeks, and _nothing_. No one would check up, no one’d call.” He takes a deep breath. “Nancy always made sure I was okay. Now, she’s just _gone_. It’s like she vanished into thin air and took everything with her.”

Billy sees his mother's eyes. Eyes the color of muddy puddles. He feels the prick of tears in the back of his skull and forces the feeling down. Buries it deep in his gut. Before he can stop himself his mouth says, “I know that feeling.”

Steve looks at him through puffy eyes. “You do? How?”

He puts his lips between his teeth and bites down until the coppery taste of blood hits his tongue. Crying in front of the kid is one thing, but Billy’s not going to let them cry together, at the same time. No fucking way. 

“Buy me a drink first, Romeo.” He says, and Steve’s got his eyes on Billy’s mouth again, brown iris’ glassy and far away.

Harrington clears his throat, says, “You got a little…” and gestures to his own lips with the pad of his thumb.

Billy’s just stares at Steve’s mouth, the thumb pressing against the pink of Steve’s lip. Harrington blinks and says, “Blood? You got a little, um, blood on your. Your lips.” The kid’s voice hitches and Billy feels his body inch forward. 

Doubts Steve even notices.

But then Harrington puts his thumb on Billy’s mouth and rubs, gently, trying to clear away what’s left.

_Kiss him. Just once._

He breathes out against Steve’s thumb and the kid closes his eyes, just for a second. His finger slides from Billy’s mouth to his jaw and just. Stops. Waits for a signal.

Steve opens his eyes, suddenly way too close in the warm glow of the living room. Maybe he moved or maybe they both did but Billy can see green specks in the brown of his eyes, like mint in chocolate. 

“Steve,” He whispers at the same time Harrington says, “ _Please_ , Billy.”

And it’s awkward. Steve’s got his lips parted like he’s just waiting patiently, just letting Billy freak out and gather his thoughts into some sort of pile before any moves are made.

He swallows and it’s like Steve can feel it in his own throat because he just stares at him and says, “Billy, can I kiss you?”

And Billy feels every ounce of blood in his body rush south. It happens so fast he’d probably faint if this moment weren’t so important.

If Steve’s thumb on his jaw weren’t pinning Billy in place.

He nods his head and Steve leans forward, smiling. 

That’s the last thing he remembers. 


	8. Where Boys Fear to Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) the one where the Earth is consumed by fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The blonde boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he's trying to kill you, and you deserve it. You do, and you know this and you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and his lips and this means your life is over, anyway. You know these things and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy unless he keeps his mouth shut, which you didn't do.  
> Because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore."

The thing is, Billy wakes up to weak sunlight streaming through an unfamiliar window, in an unfamiliar room and he sits up too fast because he’s scared. Thinks maybe somebody kidnapped him, trapped him in a _SEARS_ catalogue or something because this house is way nicer than the one he’s used to. Pastel walls and beige carpet.

That’s when his heart stops. _Can I kiss you, Billy?_

He can’t remember but he runs. Shoves his boots on and scrambles to his feet, a wave of nausea making his stomach lurch. 

Billy runs and he tells himself it’s because of school. Because he needs a shower and three packs of reds just to fill his tank, but really it’s because of Steve.

Because last night, while Billy’s brain was fuzzy and light caught the bruise on Steve’s cheek as he said _it’s okay, I understand you,_ in so many words, they crossed a line. 

He doesn’t remember exactly where the line lives or if they crossed it in the literal sense but it doesn’t matter because he feels it. The want, the need, the familiar swirl in his stomach.

_Please, Billy._

He runs because if he doesn’t get out, right now, he’ll kiss Steve’s cheeks and make him breakfast and hold his hands and they’ll be totally unprepared when the mob comes. 

When the sky falls.

Billy can’t find his keys. His eyes feel like they’ve been glued shut for fifty years and there’s a throbbing at the back of his skull, like the time he got knocked out by Max’s soccer trophy.

Sandy calves and pink lips. Billy had brought him home, let his guard down. Let the light in. And that had been a mistake.

That's when he spots the kid curled up in a ball on the rug, neon pink sweatband pulled over his eyes like a mask, ugly bruise on his left cheek. Steve’s got his head smashed into the carpet in a way that can’t be comfortable and he’s snoring. Little deep breaths pushing through his open lips. And Billy loves him.

So, he runs. Because he hadn’t even loved the kid in California, not really, and he can’t let it happen again. Can’t ruin someone else’s life. Can’t ruin Steve.

He decides to give up on the keys and just _walk home,_ for Christ-sake, when;

“Billy?” Steve’s voice is still soft with sleep as he sits, rubbing at his eyes. “Why are you up at the ass-crack of dawn?” He says it like Billy’s supposed to be here, or something. Like he belongs.

“Have you seen my keys?” His voice is tight even though he doesn’t mean it.

Steve frowns and there’s an endless moment where he looks right through Billy. Pins him in place and just analyzes him, gathers data. “Billy goat, always running.” 

And that makes him mad. “Keys, asswipe.”

“Why are you so afraid of me?” Steve asks, and Billy doesn't have the energy to explain his life to some privileged cuck so he just shakes his head. Grits his teeth. 

The kid throws his hands up, defensive. “Okay. On the hook by the front door.”

Billy turns to leave and Steve doesn’t try to stop him.

\--

Everything in his life feels like two steps forward, five steps back. 

It’s like this; Billy stumbles through the front door at 5:30 in the morning, obviously hung over from having spent the night with someone and Neil smiles because he thinks Billy isn’t a faggot anymore. 

Really, smiles and says, “Morning, son.”

And that puts Billy on edge. His mind races all through first and second period, grappling with memories of California and the way his lips had tasted like sea salt and sunscreen when Billy kissed him.

_I love you, Billy. Let’s run away together._

He takes notes, answers questions, but the voice is there. And he’s eating lunch in his car as Neil’s face flashes across his memory, shock and then disgust and then fury. A rage that had shut him off from reason, from control. 

The feeling of Max’s soccer trophy sinking into his skull. Her voice screaming, “Billy, please wake up, Billy.” And Neil’s footsteps as they moved past his head. Creaking floorboards and blood in his hair. The sound of an ambulance and then...nothing.

Just shadow. Billy had thought he was dead. Wished he was.

And then he woke up in the hospital. Neil told the doctor Billy fell down the stairs and that was it. Seven stitches later he was in the Camaro, following a moving truck to Hawkins. 

No one would tell him what happened to the boy. _I love you, Billy. Let’s run._

So, yeah. Two steps forward with Neil now that Billy’s fixed, and five steps back where it really counts. Steve won’t even look at him.

\--

Apparently, Nancy has moved on.

Rumor has it she ditched with Jonathan Byers a few days ago and hasn’t been seen since. Billy’s walking through the halls toward the locker room and it’s all anyone’s talked about all day. He’d be surprised if it hasn’t made national news yet. 

It’s not like he’d care about the bitch under normal circumstances, but since Halloween life has been anything but. Billy can feel Steve’s anguish all through practice. Even though they haven’t spoken in three days.

Not like Billy’s counting.

Coach sets up two scrimmage matches in preparation for Friday’s game and Steve’s playing hard, violent. He shoulder-checks Tommy a few times on Thursday for saying shit about Nancy, calling her princess, saying the thing with Byers must be a coincidence and Billy knows a storm is coming, feels it before it happens.

Steve gets the shit beat out of him.

It’s Friday night. The team won their second game of the season and Billy’s driving down Mirkwood, tires kicking up dirt, arm out the window when he sees him. Steve walking on the side of the road. They haven’t spoken in days and Billy isn’t eager to pull over and give the kid a ride but his foot slams on the break before he knows what he’s doing. The Camaro screeches on the asphalt road and Billy rolls down his window with trembling fingers.

“Hey pretty boy, need a ride?” He tries for humor but his voice is thin. Tinny.

And fuck, Steve’s eye is swollen shut and he’s got a cut along the side of his face, just below his ear. Billy puts the car in park and jumps to the ground, furious, but Steve’s already talking.

“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.”

Billy’s voice echos off the trees. “Somebody finally kick your ass, Harrington?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders and says, “I kinda had it coming.”

Suddenly all the playfulness is gone and Billy’s got a lump in his throat and his arms are tingling but it’s different this time. It’s like Steve’s speaking five languages at once, not making any sense, and all Billy can think is _where is that little shit, I’m gonna rip his arms off, I’m gonna kill him._

Steve’s staring at him with one sad eye. “Billy, please don’t freak out, it’s okay.”

Maybe the kid can read minds. 

Billy’s voice is shaking now. He swallows it down, wills it to stop. “Where did this happen, where’s Tommy?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I went for a walk and then I was outside _Luckies_ and Tommy pulled up and said some shit about Nancy, and I just lost it, okay?” His knuckles aren’t even bloody. 

“Who taught you how to fight?” Billy asks, and Steve tries not to grin but fails.

“Nobody, alright. I’m. I never won a fight.” He’s suddenly shy but he looks at Billy for the first time like he’s actually glad to see him. “Those two times I hit you, those were it.”

Billy laughs. The whole situation is dark and fucked up and Steve’s cut is bleeding again but he can’t help it. “Those times don’t count, Harrington.”

Steve licks his lips, “If you wanted to I bet you could really give it to me, right?”

And Billy doesn’t say anything, just lets his feet carry him forward until he’s right in Steve’s face. The kid goes silent and just stares at him, drinks him in. Billy feels his cheeks go red. 

He lifts two fingers and gently prods the skin around Steve’s ear. 

“Gonna need stitches, pretty boy.” 

Steve winces, “I think I have some stuff at home. Basketball, and all that. I should be okay.” 

But Billy doesn’t drop his hand and Harrington doesn’t move away so they just relax into the moment. An eternity passes and Billy thinks he could watch Steve and do nothing else for the rest of his life. Pretty brown eyes and soft lips.

The moment passes. 

“I could, like, help. If you want. I’ve had a lot of practice.” Billy says, suddenly nervous. 

The corners of Steve’s mouth tick up. “A pretty face like yours? Doubt it.”

Neil’s face flashes against the whites of Billy’s eyes, hot and angry. _Faggot._

“You’d be surprised,” He says. And Steve seems to buy it, at least for now.

\--

A bowl of warm water and a clean napkin.

A needle and thread.

Apply pressure, clean the wound. 

Billy’s hands work slowly, meticulously, as he picks gravel out of the gash on Steve’s face. He’s applying soap and warm water, really getting in there, and Harrington winces but keeps his mouth shut. Kid’s tough. Billy’s proud, in a way.

It’s weird seeing him like this. Up close, from the inside as he gets Steve’s blood under his fingernails. Billy’s eyebrows furrow as he runs the cloth over Steve’s forehead and the cotton comes back red. 

“You’ve got a lot of smaller cuts up by your hairline,” His voice is a whisper but still seems too loud, like a clap of thunder. “Might need some ointment.”

Steve chuckles, “Please never say that word again.”

“Ointment,” Billy says, but he’s focused. Steve laughs and then falls silent.

They stay like that for a while, Billy working carefully and Steve watching him. Until the silence gets to be too heavy and Harrington whispers, “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

Billy squeezes cream from a tube and begins slicking it across Steve’s forehead, a thick layer and little by little. He wrinkles his nose. “You don’t wanna know, kid.”

Steve frowns. “Well, a crock of shit.” Billy shakes his head, grinning, so Steve charges on. “I cry in front of you, like, three- _hundred_ times about The Idiot Stick Figure With No Soul and you still don’t trust me?”

Billy laughs. “New name?”

“Just something I’m trying out,” Steve shrugs and then gets very serious. “You only ever answered one of my questions anyway, remember? You owe me.”

Billy just shakes his head. Maybe in a perfect world. Maybe if Steve were someone different and Billy lived somewhere different and it was over letter or something, but not now. Not while the kid’s right in front of him. 

Steve groans. “Come on Billy, you can trust me. Let me in.”

He grabs the needle and thread and holds them in front of Steve’s face. “I can’t monologue about my problems, not when half your face is hanging on the goddamn floor.”

Steve puts his hand up defensively. “A stitch for your thoughts?”

And he’s got this cute little pout on his lips and Billy can’t say no to him. Not when he looks so open and earnest and _innocent._

Let him in. Okay.

Finally, Billy nods his head. “Alright, Harrington. But you move your head even a little and your ass is grass, got it?” 

Steve nods, very seriously, and then smiles like a dufus. Billy loves him.

He gets to work stringing the thread through the needle. “Okay, um. I guess it started a long time ago, back when we still lived in California. Before max. My mom and pop married pretty young. Neil fought in vietnam and all that shit, jarhead, so he’s pretty much the poster child for god-fearing discipline.” 

He pokes the needle through the skin on Steve’s cheek. Harrington winces and Billy squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. 

“I wasn’t always...like this,” He whispers, voice thick, “Didn’t used to be such a--”

“A shithead?” Steve offers helpfully.

And Billy chuckles because this could be so much worse. “Yeah. Shithead. I take after my mama,” Brown eyes, blonde hair. She was an angel. 

Billy’s voice is far away. “S-she always um. Stuck up for me. Neil’d call me a sissy and she’d hug me. Gave me love. Affection. But, then.” And Billy can’t finish. His hands start to shake and he forces them still, only three more stitches to go.

Steve nods his head like, _it’s okay Billy. You can do this._

But he can’t “Okay, fuck.” Billy takes a deep breath.

“It’s like this. ‘Let me tell you a story about war: a boy spills a glass of milk and his father picks him up by the back of the shirt and throws him against the wall. You killed my wife and you can’t even keep a glass on the table. The wife died of sadness, by her own hand.’” 

Billy ties the line of stitches and steps back. Steve isn’t breathing, just staring. Eyes watery. 

Billy closes his eyes, “The father walks out of the room and the room is almost empty.”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a thousand years, it seems like, and Billy thinks he should run. Turn and leave now, while he still can.

But then he feels tears slide down his face and Steve says, gently, “Neil hits you, Billy.” Like he knew it all along.

And Billy cries. Weeps, really, and Steve’s got his arms around him and Billy’s head is buried in his neck and he keeps whispering things that Billy doesn’t understand.

Steve puts his hands in Billy’s hair and forces him to look up, into his eyes. “It’s not your fault, do you understand me?” He’s crying, too.

And it’s like the floodgates open up inside him. He hangs his head, gulping huge breaths, forcing his lungs to work. 

Steve kisses his head, down the side of his face. “You’re okay. I’m never going to let anything hurt you.”

Billy breathes deeply, in and out, and smiles. It’s a small smile but it’s something. And just like that, Steve’s grinning back. They’re so close their noses are almost touching.

“Didn’t know you write poetry,” Steve says weakly. 

And then they’re kissing. 

Billy doesn’t know how it happens but it does, and it’s fierce. Urgent, all tongues and hair pulling out of the fucking blue and he can’t breathe. 

Steve tastes like mint and blood. Fire and steel.

And then Billy is pressed against the refrigerator, magnets digging into his shoulder blades. Steve kisses his neck, behind his ears. Bites the skin on his jaw. 

Like he’s trying to swallow Billy whole.

“Steve,” he whispers, but the kid doesn’t hear him. He’s got his hands up Billy’s shirt and he’s raking his nails down Billy’s sides and before he can stop it he rolls his hips and Steve moans. 

“Harrington,” He says, louder this time, and Steve laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life. “C’mon, man, stop.”

Steve does, backs the fuck up like Billy punched him or something. His eye looks more swollen, if that’s even possible, and Billy brushes his fingers against Steve’s cheek.

Steve licks his lips and nods, slowly. “You...don’t want me?”

“It’s not that I don’t. I mean, _look_ at you.” Billy says horsley, “But you need some frozen peas on that eye, stat.”

Harrington’s cheeks are flushed and his hair is everywhere, like a startled porcupine. “Yeah,” he says unsurely, “Yeah, okay.”

Billy nods his head, smiles. “Yeah, okay.” He opens the freezer and digs around for a minute, seeing what he can find. Eventually he settes on a bag of pineapple.

When he turns around Steve still looks confused. Like something jumped into his body and possessed him. Billy isn’t sure why but it makes his heart pound, and not in the good way.

“Here you go, amigo,” He says lightly. 

Steve grabs the pineapple, careful not to touch Billy’s fingers. “Hey, thanks Hargrove.” He lifts the thing to his eyes and winces, then settles into the feeling. 

There is a long moment where Billy feels like he should leave, like the air’s turned sour. Unwelcoming. He shuffles his feet, clears his throat. “Well, I guess I’d better--”

Harrington nods aggressively, “Yeah I think I’m gonna, like, go to bed or. Something.” He gestures to the first aid station and says, “I’ll clean that up later, so don’t worry about it.”

Billy nods his head. “Okay, well. See ya ‘round.” And walks out the front door. 

As he pulls the Camaro out of Steve’s driveway and onto the street, Billy lights a cigarette and tries to ignore the uneasiness that’s growing roots in his stomach.

  
  



	9. The Things They Carried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) in which, for Martha, some things are crossed out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This is the part of the movie where you can see through the acting. Where you can tell I'm about to burst into tears right before I burst into tears and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed canopied with devastated clouds. We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth. Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn't want to see it this way, everything eating everything in the end.  
> We know how the light works, we know where the sound is coming from.  
> I'm sorry. The world is no longer mysterious."

And just like that, the days get bad again. Ten steps back this time. 

Neil is upset that Billy hasn’t been doing his chores and all weekend he’s passive- aggressive. A slap here, a punch there, and by Sunday night Billy’s policing his thoughts because he’s _sure_ that Neil knows about Steve. Can take one look at his face and know, instantly, that Steve is Tammy Thompson.

The proof is plain as day if you know where to look and Neil knows how to find it. Those moments buried in the sand. The kiss (or two, Billy still isn’t sure), the sutures, fire and steel and magnets pressing into shoulder blades. Everything.

Tenderness and melancholy that morphed into something chilly coursing through his veins.

_You....don’t want me?_

Billy’s on edge. Keeps a chair wedged under his door handle and a window open while he sleeps, just in case. Jumps at every noise, terrified that this is the moment he’s waited for--Neil is tearing through his bedroom door with an aluminum bat in his hands.

But it doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t happen, because no one knows.

He can’t stop thinking about Steve’s mouth. The way the curve of his cheek was sliced in two and how Billy sewed him back together. It all happened so fast and he thinks that maybe, if he had just kept driving down Mirkwood and left the kid in the dust none of this would have happened. Then, maybe he’d be getting more than thirty-minutes of sleep at a time.

But he wanted it. Has wanted it, _Steve,_ in any way he could get him for months. 

It’s pathetic, really.

So by Sunday night Billy is agitated. His fear has given way to something more powerful, more lethal in every sense of the word.

The familiar burn has returned to his limbs and he’s lifting weights, smoking at the same time, doing anything he can to work the events of the last week out of his ligaments when Neil pokes his head into the room and Billy nearly drops the barbell on the ground.

“Dad, I thought you went to the evening service.”

“Somebody’s here to see you,” The old man says like it’s the most normal thing on the planet.

Billy stares at him, wipes a towel across his forehead. “I didn’t...sir, I don't know who--”

“I don’t like strangers in my house, William.” Neil crosses the threshold and the light from Billy’s lamp distorts his face, sharpening his features. “You deliberately disobeyed me. And you know what happens when you disobey me.”

And Billy hates to admit it but he’s glad Max got rid of her soccer trophy.

He opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t get the chance. Neil slaps him so hard he falls backward, onto the bed. It’s the definition of pathetic. 

“Yes sir, I’m sorry sir.”

Neil’s laugh is short. “Sorry doesn’t explain why there’s a darkie at my front door, William.” Billy’s confused, forcing his mind to slow and process what’s being said to him. His father shakes his head, sucks his teeth. “I thought after I caught you with that faggot blackie in California you had learned your lesson. And a _child_. Like ‘em young now, boy?”

And Billy’s life flashes before his eyes. 

He feels bile in his throat, choking out his words. He wants to beg for mercy, _you’ll never get the blood out of the wallpaper,_ but then Max is outside his door and she’s talking. Speaking a language Billy doesn’t understand.

“He’s here for me, Neil.” She’s got that glint in her eye. All big and bad and so, so dumb. Billy will pay for that later. “Going to the arcade."

Before either of them can respond she’s gone. The sound of the front door slamming echoes through Billy's bones.

Neil stares at him, clearly upset about being denied the opportunity to break Billy’s fingers. 

They stay like that for a while. Billy flat on the bed, sweat plastering his shirt to his skin. From somewhere in the house he can hear Susan walking around, humming, tight and slightly out of tune. _Why is she never here when I need her?_

“Well stand up son, Jesus. Have some respect.” Neil barks, and Billy hops to his feet like his ass is on fire. “Could do with a little more of that in general.”

Another slap, the other cheek this time. And then; “Did you know about this?” 

Billy finally finds his voice, wills it to stay neutral. “Did I know about what, sir?”

Neil bares his teeth like a rabid dog. Doesn’t buy it for a second. _Max, have to protect Max._ “You have a responsibility to this family to keep that girl out of trouble, you understand?” Neil begins wandering around the room, picking things up and setting them back down again. 

Billy’s knees shake, knock together like loose chicken bones.

“That means,” His father continues thinly, “When your sister starts hanging out with darkies, you have to do something about it.” Billy swallows but the lump in his throat doesn’t budge.

“He’s a good kid, sir.” 

Neil’s suddenly in his face, hot breath fanning over Billy’s cheeks. “Good kid? Ain’t no such thing.”

And Billy knows it’s coming. Because he's a bitch to Neil's every beck and call, he’s going to have to plaster on the mask. Take up his recurring role as the antagonist, Max’s evil step brother. But, he thinks, if that means saving his own ass and keeping Max unbloodied and unbruised, it’s a price he’s willing to pay. 

Billy finally musters the courage to look into his father’s eyes. Anger curls in the pit of his stomach, perverts the tone of his voice. “What do you want from me?”

Wrong answer. The gut-punches come fast, in rapid succession. 

One. Two. Three. 

“You’re a smart boy,” Neil spits, “Get creative.”

And Billy’s on the floor, tears threatening to spill over. _Don’t fucking cry, don’t you dare fucking cry._ He takes little breaths, waiting for his lungs to catch up as Neil’s footsteps thunder across the floor, out into the hallway. 

As the door shuts with a click, Billy cries. Weeps, choking on spit, and this time it’s for Max.

\--

Billy decides to forgo the ice pack and get dressed. T-shirt and jeans, he can’t be in this house anymore. In the dull fluorescent light of the bathroom his skin looks papery and sallow like he’s been fighting off some life-threatening illness. All hollow eyes and pale lips. Like he’s been sick his whole life.

Then again, maybe he has. 

No matter what Billy does, no matter how he dresses or who he’s friends with or who he fucks, he’s always doing something wrong. Isn’t even sure it’s the faggotry that grinds Neil’s gears anymore. Maybe it’s just him. 

Billy’s sensitivity, his face, his demeanor. He’s exactly like his mother and Neil can’t take it. The whole thing eats him alive and Billy gets it. He knows the feeling.

When he makes his way through the living room, smoke hanging from his lips, keys in his hand, Neil doesn’t say anything. Just watches the T.V. Eyes forward, jaw working. 

Susan’s on the couch next to him, reading the bible in an effort to sweep her guilt under the rug. Classic Susan, Billy thinks, but he can’t really blame her. She smiles at him, small and secret, but he can’t bring himself to smile back.

She can take a million pictures on Halloween, fix four-hundred tuna sandwiches, hug and kiss him and try to fill the hole his mother left behind but none of it will ever mean anything if she doesn’t say something. 

Stand up and stop it, the abuse.

 _Abuse._ The word feels funny, tickles the edges of Billy’s mind as he pulls the Camaro out of their driveway, past Cherry and onto Maple street. His mother had carried his burden, and then she died. Must have been too heavy to bear alone.

Again, Billy knows the feeling. 

He kicks up speed and rolls his window down until the cool air stings the skin on his face, burns the tears from his eyes.

\--

Hawkins’ quarry isn’t the ocean and never could be, but Billy likes being near the water. His mother used to hold his hand, tell him stories about their ancestors. Sea witches who gathered driftwood and smooth pebbles for rituals. Small offerings to the Gods, she’d said, building bridges between worlds and how they are the result of hundreds of years of true love. The culmination of all the epic stories--death and rebirth and death again.

He wonders how they got here.

Billy drains the last of his beer and hangs his legs over the edge of the cliff, stares down at the waterfront as the slab of limestone pokes holes in his legs. A fall from this height could be enough to kill someone, break every bone in your body like you jumped off the Empire State Building or something. 

And Billy wants to try it, just to see what it’d feel like. But who’d be left then? Who would be the culmination of his epic story? Billy smiles bitterly. 

Faggots wish for death, a song on a misty street just before dawn, it comes with the territory. He can count on one hand the times something has stopped him. 

He can count on the other the times he’s thought about killing Neil.

Just then a clap of thunder makes Billy jump. His heart pops into his throat and he pulls his legs up, hugging them to this chest because he almost fell. Toppled off the ride and broke all his bones for real.

In the distance he can see light. Swirling, red and angry, like somebody painted a picture of what Billy’s stomach feels like everyday. The wind stops blowing, trees stand still like everything is on pause and his ears perk up, just like that afternoon in Max’s room.

Clicking. Or maybe it’s chirping this time, like some sort of bird.

He cocks his head to the side. Listens, straining to figure out where it’s coming from when it sounds like the noise is inside him. Rattling his bones or something. 

And then his blood turns to ice.

All around him the atmosphere has dropped twenty degrees. His breath comes out in white puffs, slow and sure as he forces his heart to beat again. 

The hair on his body stands on end because just like that afternoon, something is wrong. 

Only this time Billy is one-thousand percent sure he’s going to die.

Rubble, rocks and particles of dirt float at eye level like somebody turned off the gravity that was holding everything in place. He reaches out a trembling hand and brushes his fingers against a piece of tree bark, not sure what he’s expecting.

“What the--”

And then there’s a voice. Right at the back of his head, like somebody’s speaking from inside his skull.

_Live, Billy. We have plans for you._

His back arches, ribs groaning against sternum as his skin sizzles. It feels like he’s being electrocuted. There’s a scream bubbling up inside his chest, escaping from his lips as his eyes roll back in his head. His forehead cracks open, pain splitting right between his eyes and then--

It’s over. 

Billy looks around wildly. He’s gulping huge lungful's of air, trying to figure out where he is, how he got here. 

The thing is, he’s in his bedroom.

It’s morning and there’s light streaming through the open window and his limbs feel like they’ve been stuffed full of lead. Must have been a dream.

He sits, slowly because Neil fists did a number, and lights a cigarette.

Stranger and stranger, he wishes things could go back to normal. Outside his door he hears the familiar bustle of morning in the Hargrove house--crinkling brown paper bags, lunches being prepared, the swoosh of Neil’s morning paper--and feels himself relax, little by little.

He peels off his t-shirt and heads down the hallway, toward the bathroom.

Max’s bedroom door is closed and he’s grateful that he gets an extra fifteen minutes to just be himself, to refrain from antagonizing her. It’s been a few weeks since he’s left a book outside her door and makes a note to stop by the library today at lunch. 

The hallway is silent as he grips the knob to the bathroom, and something stops him.

Behind the oak wood of Max’s door he hears static, then her soft voice as she whispers, “Lucas, do you copy?”

And Billy prepares himself for war.

\--

He’s in the library, poking around in the sci-fi section when he feels a hand on his elbow. He knows without having to turn around who it is. 

“What do you want, Harrington.” Billy tries for venom and is successful. 

“Can we talk?” Steve asks. 

When Billy turns around the first thing he notices is the stitches are healing nicely. He’s had enough practice to know the cut wasn’t that deep and probably won’t leave a scar unless you’re searching for it. Then he sees the black eye, how it illuminates the sadness in Steve’s eyes, and then he notices the tilt of Steve’s mouth and he knows something’s going on. Can tell.

“What’s up?” He says, and Steve looks around to make sure there aren’t any hot ears that might be listening in. Yeah right, like Tommy and Carole hang out in the _library._

“Listen, I just. Okay, this whole _thing_ is eating me alive,” Steve wags his finger back and forth between them. “This thing, between us, I’ve. I’ve never done anything...like this and I--”

Billy grits his teeth. “Look, princess, I don’t know what you think happened, but I’m not doing this here, all right?” He can’t give Steve the room to reject him. Doesn’t think he’d survive it. 

Steve blinks, “Billy, we have to talk about this, I haven’t been sleeping.” And the way he says it makes Billy’s blood boil. He breathes heavily, out his nose, and feels his vision tunnel.

“What, can’t take it? Feel like your skin is crawling away, like the world is crashing and burning and like your're drowning at the same fucking time?” Steve won’t look at him and that’s all Billy needs. He gets right in his face. “You kissed me, remember?”

Steve looks around wildly, “Jesus, keep your voice down, will you?”

And Billy doesn’t want to deal with this. Can’t deal with this, not now and not ever. He looks right in Steve’s eyes and says, “I’m not some sort of dog that you can keep tied up on a leash, alright?”

“Is that what you think this is? What you to me?” The kid’s voice is shaking, all tatters and bleeding wounds, and the soft brown irises harden, slamming like steel doors.

Billy’s hands are shaking, he wants to kill him. “Then what am I, Steve?”

Harrington swallows. “Listen, it’s not like that okay. That kiss it was--”

“If you say it was a mistake, Harrington, I’m going to rip your throat from your goddamn body.” And he means it. Steve doesn’t get to _do this._ Come in and blow up his world and make him cry and kiss him and then just. Leave. Run away.

Though Billy probably deserves it. He’s never stopped running himself, not for a second.

Steve’s taking slow, measured breaths as he says, “The kiss. It ripped me apart and put me back together, okay. All at once. It happened so fast and I just.” He closes his eyes, searching. When he speaks again his voice is hardly a whisper. “I’m scared, Billy.”

“Join the club, we’ve got jackets.” He says flatly, and turns his attention back to the books. To finding something Max would like before he turns evil again. 

Steve scoffs. “You run too, Billy.” And Billy can’t look at him. He swallows and tries to block it out. “You run from me.”

He scans the titles and settles on _Misery,_ an old favorite of his. The hardcover feels like a brick in his hands. It takes all his strength not to bash Harrington’s skull in with it.

Steve puts his hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Just, give me a chance to explain myself.”

Billy shakes his head. “I have to study. Howard’s midterms are next week--”

And Steve’s laughing, shaking his head like the world is just some massively cruel joke and when Billy looks at him Steve’s staring. Eyes heavy and far away. His lips barely move as he says, “Sometimes it scares me how much you remind me of Nancy.”

Heat flares in Billy’s stomach, twists things around. 

He doesn’t say anything and Steve just nods. Clearly dejected. He jams his hands in his pockets and says, “House is open, come by tonight.”

And then he’s gone.

\--

Something about picking Max up from school gives him the heebie-jeebies. 

Maybe it’s the line of parents, stacked bumper to bumper in station wagons and minivans as they wait for school to end. The way all the mom’s eye him like he’s on the fucking menu or something. Maybe it’s the crushing memory of his own experience in middle school, even, but that isn’t it. At least not entirely.

If he’s being honest, it’s the boys. The ones who are gay and don’t know it yet. 

The ones who laugh at their best friends jokes and stare while the other isn’t looking. The ones who are jealous of girls and who suck at playing sports and who just. Remind Billy, in so many ways, of himself at thirteen. Of those dark times. 

He shakes his head and sucks on his cigarette. Tries not to think about it.

The thing is, in some sick way Billy’s living those boys’ wildest dreams. 

Sure, he pays a price for the reality of Steve looking into his eyes, quiet and so, so beautiful, saying, ‘it scares me sometimes how much you remind me of Nancy,’ but nothing in life comes free.

Maybe another boy likes him back and they kissed and Billy hasn’t died. At least not yet.

And as Max’s red head bobs into view he wonders how many of these boys will ever get to experience loving someone in a way that feels real.

He crushes his cigarette with the heel of his boot when he notices someone’s following her, talking loudly, all flailing limbs and scratchy voice.

Midnight. Neil’s voice floats into focus; _You’re a smart boy, get creative._

He’s gotta do it. Paste on the mask, become the villain. It turns out to be easier than expected when the kid lifts his arms above his head and yells, “Max!” in a way that reminds him of Neil. 

Fuck no. 

Max yells, “Still stink, by the way,” over her shoulder and climbs into the Camaro, skateboard banging against the arm rest. Billy watches as the kid walks away, then he settles into the driver's seat, lights a cigarette. Just sort of lets the moment hang in the air. 

Then; “Why was he talking to you?”

“It was just about a stupid class assignment,” Max responds, quiet.

And that does something to Billy. “Then why are you so upset.”

She raises her voice, just a little, and everything seems heavier all of a sudden. Just, _more._ Billy can’t explain it. “I’m not.”

“He giving you trouble?” Billy seethes, and he hopes not because then he’d have to kill the kid himself and Neil’s all too eager to bury the kid in a shallow grave.

Max stares at him, “Why do you care?’

“Because, Max,” He rolls his eyes, always having to explain reality to the dumb kid, “You’re a piece of shit but we’re family now, whether we like it or not. Meaning I’m stuck looking out for you.”

It borders on kindness, protectiveness, and it makes them both uncomfortable. Max throws her arms up, trying for humor. “What would I do without you--”

He reaches out and grabs her wrist, holding it tightly in his hand. “Hey! This is serious shit, okay,” And Billy has to make it clear. To protect them, both of them, and the kid too. “I’m older than you. And something you learn is there’s certain types of people in this world that you stay away from.”

 _See me, understand. Please._ “And that kid, Max, that kid is one of them.”

Her eyes are glassy and Billy wishes he could take it back. Make it better. He clenches his jaw. “You stay away from him, you hear me?” Billy jerks her closer, driving his point home, “Stay away.”

And then he puts the car in reverse and pulls onto Carter street, toward home. Max is silent the entire ride and Billy feels like shit. The worst kind of person, a racist, and knows that her opinion of him has shifted.

He finishes his cigarette and tosses it out the window, pushing the feeling into the pit of his stomach and piling things on top of it.

If this is the price he has to pay for Max’s safety, the burden he has to shoulder, he’d do it a million times over.

Billy is good at carrying things.

  
  


  
  



	10. The Boy On The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) the one where you imagine surrender but get lost in the woods
> 
> The songs used in this chapter are:  
> This Must Be My Dream by the 1975  
> and  
> Last Night on Earth by Green Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The fact of his pulse, the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or desire, not to disturb the air around him. The way we look like animals, his skin barely keeping him contained. I wanted to take him and rough him up and get my hands inside, drive my body into his like a crash test car. I wanted to be wanted and he was very beautiful and he kissed with his eyes closed and only felt good while moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said.  
> So it's summer.  
> So it's suicide. So we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of a pool."

Every light in Steve’s house is on, top to bottom, front to back, when Billy pulls into his driveway later that night. 

He’s having second thoughts, like always. 

Thinks maybe he shouldn’t go to the front door and ring the doorbell and get sucked further into the storm. But, he knows he’s living somebody’s wildest dream so he climbs out of the Camaro, taking the last few drags of his cigarette before sealing his fate.

Full disclosure, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. What Steve’s going to say, or do, and he’s taking a risk by allowing the unknown to swallow him up. 

Billy could be walking into a trap, for all he knows. Steve might look at him with disgust perverting his brown eyes and Billy would keel over, right there, and Steve would have to get rid of him. Chief Hopper might pull his body out of the lake come morning.

He feels like it’s his last night on earth.

But his finger presses the button anyway and he waits as someone shuffles behind the door and stubs their toe on something. 

And then Steve’s there, clad in a green sweatshirt and red shorts, a spatula in his hand. 

He smiles this big ridiculous smile that somehow beams its way onto Billy’s face without his permission. 

“I’m making dinner,” He says, and steps away from the door.

The house smells great, like fresh bread and cheese or something, and it does nothing to curve his anxiety. Probably amplifies it, even. 

Steve made dinner. For the two of them to eat, together. Billy feels nauseous. 

He follows Steve to the kitchen and is surprised because, holy shit, the kid wasn’t lying. 

There’s three pots on the stove and Billy is drawn forward instantly, like a cartoon hobo smelling pie on a windowsill, but Steve gets in front of him and smacks him with the spatula.

“Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong and you’re dead, Hargrove,” Steve’s smiling, all teeth and sparkly eyes. He’s beautiful.

Billy sticks his hands up in surrender. “You got it, baby.”

And just like that, Steve’s blushing a pretty shade of pink that Billy’s never even seen before and he wants to make Steve do it again. 

He takes his jacket and slings it over the back of a chair.

The radio’s on, humming a song Billy’s never heard. Its sound is completely new, like twinkling stars and glam rock. He pulls a beer out of the fridge and tries to relax.

_This must be my dream, wide awake before i found you_

_This must be my dream, can’t wait for you, boy_

_Wake me from my dream…_

Steve’s stirring something, his back to the room, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Billy pulls _Misery_ out of his backpack and flips to Chapter Two (he’s a fast reader). His thumb finds its way to his mouth. 

He lets his eyes scan the page, lips mouthing the words, letting the taste of them sink into his tongue. The man on the radio sings on.

_Pipe down, you're no lover_

_This feeling keeps your body tune_

_Well, I thought it was love but I guess I must be dreaming_

_'Bout feeling something instead of you…_

When he finally looks up Steve is watching him, a smile on his lips. 

“What,” Billy asks. He tries to drain his voice of defensiveness and fails.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice. He rolls his eyes, points at the book with his spatula. “I thought you had to study for Howard’s test?”

He turns back to the stove and removes lids, stirring things and tasting as he goes. Billy shrugs his shoulders, nibbles at the skin on his thumbnail.

“Sounded like you were going to help me study,” he says, and Steve chuckles. “Besides, what fun would it be if I get to study molecular structure and you’re playing house.”

_What did I tell you about this girl_

_The one to rearrange your world…_

Steve clears his throat. “Listen, about before--”

“It’s okay, man, really.” Billy doesn’t lift his eyes from the page, just assumes they can forget that bit and move on. “It’s like you said. We’re all running from something.”

But Steve doesn’t let it go. “Do you really think I treat you like my dog?”

_What does all our love amount to_

_This must be my dream_

_Can’t make love when you fly around me, baby_

He shrugs again, unsure. “I was just upset. Hurt.”

Steve’s eyes flash with something Billy can’t quite place. He’s got a towel slung over his shoulder and Harrington could be a pin-up model. Housewife edition or something. 

“You were hurt? Why?”

And Billy closes his book because obviously he’s not going to get any reading done. He rubs at his forehead, fights the urge to hide behind anger. “Because, Steve.”

“Because what?” Always pushing.

Billy grits his teeth. “How do I know you aren’t going to send a mob after me if I confess?” His voice is shaking, sputtering and tearful and he hates himself for being such a sissy all the time.

Steve wipes his hands on the towel, makes his way around the island to stand beside Billy. “What are you talking about?” His voice is hard. 

“A mob. How do I know Chief Hopper isn’t going to pull my body out of the quarry tomorrow,” Steve’s cheeks flush red and Billy can tell he’s hurting him but the thing is; he doesn’t really care. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Steve blinks, bites his lip uneasily. “Maybe because you have dirt on me, too.”

And that’s hilarious. Billy shakes his head, grins like a snake. “Oh, _right,_ because everyone’s going to believe that King Steve’s some kind of faggot, right?”

“I don’t care for that word.” The kid stares at him with narrowed eyes. “What makes you so sure people wouldn’t believe it, huh?”

Billy laughs because, fuck, Steve’s got jokes tonight. “You’re not serious?” He asks, and Steve shrugs his shoulders, eyes scanning the ceiling.

“You cry over Nancy Wheeler like she’s dead or something,” Billy really can’t believe someone so cute could be so daft. His voice is slowly picking up volume. “Seriously. You love her ‘till the goddamn wheels fall off and you’ve made an embarrassment of yourself over her and you know what’s funny? She doesn’t love you, Steve. She never did. You’re just wasting your time on some twig bitch with a bad attitude and it _kills me.”_

_This must be my dream, wide awake before I found you_

_This must be my dream, can’t wait for you, boy_

_Wake me from my dream…_

Billy knows he’s just projecting because, in a lot of ways, he’s like Steve. Hopelessly in love with a straight boy who made a mistake and is trying desperately to play nice so Billy doesn’t ruin his life. He scrubs a hand across his face and waits for Steve to say something. Anything.

After what feels like an eternity the kid swallows. 

“Okay, fair enough,” He says, and puts his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I’m not exactly a. A _faggot,”_

And Billy feels like somebody pulled the rug out from under him.

His breathing goes all loose and wavy, like a ship caught in a storm, and he tries to convince himself that Steve wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t turn him in, wouldn’t hurt him because they’re friends or something.

As if that means anything. 

But then Steve’s got his hands on Billy’s face and he says, sweetly, “Just because I’m not gay doesn’t mean I don’t...that I didn’t want to kiss you, Billy.”

His heart stops as the song on the radio morphs into something slow, romantic.

_I text a postcard sent to you, did it go through? Sending all my love to you._

_You are the moonlight of my life every night,_

_Giving all my love to you._

Steve takes a deep breath. “Don’t laugh, okay?” And Billy’s not, not even close, as Steve’s thumb brushes his lip. “I’ve had a stupid embarrassing crush on you, for a while.”

_My beating heart belongs to you._

_I walked for miles ‘til I found you…_

Billy’s definitely going to cry. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, though, because he’s working through something in his head, eyebrows knitted together in an embrace.

“I kept searching for ways to be close to you, even if I didn’t know it at the time. Even if that meant pushing your buttons. Maybe that makes me, like, not straight?” Steve tries, “I don’t really know. But Billy, you’re an angel. You act like a shithead sometimes but you’re, like. I understand. I get it.”

_I’m here to honor you_

_If I lose everything in the fire,_

_I’m sending all my love to you…_

Billy opens his mouth to respond but then Steve’s kissing him and it’s different this time. Slow and sweet and intimate. It makes his head throb and his heart take root in his body. His arms wrap themselves around Steve’s neck and their chests press together.

_With every breath that I am worth_

_Here on Earth, I’m sending all my love to you…_

Steve’s hands move to his shoulders, caressing him gently as their kiss deepens and morphs into something guttural. Billy stumbles off the chair and Steve holds him tighter like he’s trying to crush their bodies together, mold them into something new. Celestial. 

_So if you dare to second guess_

_You can rest, assured that all my love’s for you._

He walks forward until Steve’s back hits the counter with a thud. He pulls back, slips his hands under the fabric of Steve’s sweater.

“Is. Is this--” He asks.

Steve smiles. “Yeah. Yes, Billy.”

_My beating heart belongs to you._

_I walked for miles ‘til i found you…_

Billy sucks at the skin of Steve’s neck and gets a moan in response. Then they’re kissing again and Billy’s floating in the clouds, skin tingling in a way that’s definitely not from anger or alcohol. It’s new and it feels good. So wonderful that he never wants it to stop.

_I’m here to honor you, If I lose everything in the fire,_

_Well did I ever make it through?_

And then Steve’s voice is in his ear, quiet and shy. “Let’s go up to my room, okay?”

Billy pulls back like he’s been shot. “You. What?”

Steve looks around sheepishly. “I mean, unless you want to, like, get naked in my kitchen, in front of the window?”

But the thing is, Billy isn’t sure. He kind of steps back, lets it breathe for a minute. He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Um, I guess we can, but Steve.” He tries to catch the kids eye, hold him in place. “Are you sure this is something you want to do?”

Steve rolls his eyes, all fluttering eyelashes and _you're being ridiculous._ He shuts the stove off and rubs his hand down the front of Billy’s jeans. Shyly, carefully, and then drags Billy toward the stairs before he can protest.

\--

Steve’s room is exactly the way he’s always imagined it.

The walls are lined with blue ribbons and little league trophies, hammy awards for things like _Class Clown_ and _Best Hair._ There’s no posters on the wall, no clutter. Just clean and perfect and so unbelievably straight that Billy almost forgets what they’re here for.

There’s a bed in the middle of the room, across from a large set of windows, that’s made up with unwrinkled sheets. 

He lets Steve lead him, lets the kid tug at the front of his shirt. 

And then they’re kissing again and Billy’s heart shudders like a leaf. He waits patiently as Steve pulls his shirt up over his head, necklace knocking him in the face.

Steve grins, “Sorry,” and runs his fingers over Billy’s ribs, gently, staring in wonder. He’s got this look on his face that’s half terror, half amazement. 

Billy checks in again. “Sure you’re okay?”

Steve’s fingers brush over a sensitive spot and he remembers, like he’s suddenly in free fall, the sensation of Neil’s fist against his stomach.

Billy wants to leave, crawl out of his skin and disappear. He feels his arms come up to grab his sides protectively and Steve pulls him down on the bed.

“You don’t have to hide from me.” He whispers.

Billy nods. It’s not that people haven’t seen his bruises before, they have. Some even find it sexy. Think that Billy’s dangerous, or something, and he’s definitely used it to his advantage in the past. 

But Steve is the first person to know the true story. It feels massive, the responsibility that comes with exposing yourself to someone like that.

Steve kisses Billy’s forehead and removes his own shirt.

He’s beautiful. Absolutely radiant.

So Billy kisses him, tries not to think about the bruises on his stomach or how they got there or what could happen to him if Neil finds out what he’s been doing. None of that matters when Steve lays down flat and Billy crawls on top of him. 

And then they’re just exploring, planting kisses all over each other’s bodies and Billy thinks, okay this guy is gay. Or at least half gay, because he’s doing things only someone who’s  _ really  _ thought about it would know to do.

Steve’s bucking his hips and making these  _ insane  _ faces, like a work of art come to life or something. 

He feels like Pygmalion as Steve flips them over again, Billy’s head pressing into the mattress.

Harrington fumbles with the button on Billy’s jeans and he lifts his hips, allowing the denim to gather around his ankles. Steve’s hands are shaking when he tugs at the waistband of Billy’s boxers but he’s got a smile that reaches all the way to heaven.

“Ready to have your mind blown?” Steve asks confidently, and Billy grins back. 

“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

And just like that, a shadow is cast over the room. Steve’s cheeks drain of color and his eyes close and suddenly he’s making these tiny heaving noises, like he’s running from something. Billy thinks maybe he is. 

Steve hops off the bed, hand over his mouth, runs to the bin in the corner.

And vomits.

For an eternity there’s nothing but the sound of Steve dry heaving and Billy wills his body to move, to stand and gather his shit and fucking  _ go. _ He’s humiliated. Really, he’s a dead man.

Billy rises unsteadily, pulls his jeans up around his hips and searches for his t-shirt. Then Steve’s wiping his mouth, eyes watery, and he stands up like there’s a fire. 

Billy pulls his shirt over his head and shoves his feet into his shoes. 

“Where are you going?” Steve's voice is quiet and sharp.

Billy knows he’s got tears running down his cheeks so he tries to keep his head low. “It’s fine, you aren’t. Um, into it and I understand. I just have to go, Harrington.”

He tries to get around the kid, to the door and down the stairs, but Steve’s blocking the exit. 

“Steve, please,” He whispers. He can’t take this, feels like he’s dust in the wind at this very moment. 

“No,” Steve says, “No, you can’t just leave, Billy, you have to--”

His voice raises before he can stop it. “You  _ ralphed  _ when you saw my dick, Steve.” Harrington flinches, “If that’s not the mark of somebody  _ so not being into you,  _ I have no fucking  _ clue _ what is.”

Steve’s sweating, pecks glistening in the blue light coming through the window. Billy thinks he was made for night time. For the moon and the stars. He tries not to think about it as he slips through the door and lopes down the stairs, two at a time.

He’s in the kitchen throwing on his jacket and grabbing his books when Steve appears in the doorway. Still shirtless and pale as a ghost. 

His voice is soft when he says, “It’s not that I’m not attracted to you, it’s just--”

And Billy needs him to shut up because his walls are being rebuilt into something stronger, impenetrable. “I don’t give a shit, okay?”

Steve either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. “It’s what Nance used to call me.”

Billy stares at him, shocked. It takes him a minute to gather his thoughts and Steve uses the opportunity to close the distance between them. 

When Billy finally locates his voice all he can muster is, “What happened to the Idiot Stick Figure With No Soul?”

Steve stares at him, unsmiling. “Nancy used to tell me how much of an idiot I am. It just surprised me.”

Billy nods his head. Because what else can he do? Steve loves her and if he isn’t over her now then he never will be, and certainly not for a guy with anger issues and a hot rod. He can’t believe he let his guard down like this. 

The handle to the front door burns a ring in his hand as Billy swings it open and steps out onto the porch. 

Steve’s voice calls out to him. “Billy, please I. I--” 

But he doesn’t turn around. Just keeps walking, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he leaves Steve behind. The kid watches from the window, hand pressed against the glass, and Billy wonders when his life became so predictable.

  
  



	11. Cain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) I can't be what you need, I am stuck in a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What would you like? I'd like my money's worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this; swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots on with both hands but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say, 'sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine.'  
> I couldn't get the boy to kill me but I wore his jacket for the longest time."

At school the next day he tries to act like nothing's wrong. That’s his move; it didn’t mean anything. I never cared, so you can’t hurt me. Billy even sits with Tommy at lunch and says bonehead things, tries to flirt with that red-headed girl from the party. 

And it works for a while, Billy actually feels _good_ , but then Steve is across the lunch room. Watching him with sad eyes, sitting at Nancy-Fucking-Wheeler’s table and things, words, truths, begin to gnaw at Billy’s insides. 

Harrington’s moved on, back to Straightville, just like that.

So Billy lets the rage burn through his stomach.

His bones vibrate all through class. He can’t focus on his notes, doesn’t even try to do his homework before practice, just writes the words that have been streaming through his mind all day; _I wanted to hurt you, but the victory was I couldn’t stomach it._

He plays like a beast, lets everything he’s been feeling drive his motivation on the court and none of the guys can keep up.

Billy scores eighteen points in the first quarter and by the third Steve’s been charged to guard him. Their entire team is giving up, struggling to find some semblance of aggression, and Steve’s no different. The kid’s playing like a flat tire and Billy dunks on him twice.

By his third layup he’s over the moon, can’t keep his mouth shut. 

So he starts talking shit. “King Steve, King Steve, everyone,” He shouts, and the guys sneer. Billy’s arms burn with the desire to make the kid bleed, to cut his heart out. “I like it, you’re playing tough today.”

“Jesus, man, you ever stop talking? Come on.” 

“What, scared Coach is gonna bench you now that I’m here, huh?” Steve shuffles his feet constantly, can’t make a plant to save his life so Billy lunges forward, knocking Harrington to the ground as he scores another two points for his team. 

Tommy’s high-five stings his hand. They’re up by fifteen, there’s no way Steve’s rag-tag group is going to recover and the devastation is written on his face in black ink.

Billy lends his hand and Steve hesitates from his spot on the floor. 

It’s hardly anything, but it’s enough. Billy’s vision tunnels and he spits, “You were moving your feet. Plant them next time, draw a charge.” before leaving the kid on the ground.

Harrington can pick himself up, dust his own ass, clean up his own messes from now on. 

Billy’s done being Steve’s dog.

\--

So the thing is, he doesn’t hate Tommy. Not even after the thing with Harrington and the seven stitches. Maybe even owes him one, in a bizarre sense. If it weren’t for their fight Billy wouldn’t have learned the taste of Steve’s mouth and he really doesn’t think he could have gone his whole life without figuring it out.

Tommy blows smoke out his nose and hands the cigarette over with a grin.

Yeah, they share cigarettes now. Like he said, bizarre.

“So let me get this straight, you’ve never surfed,” Billy asks, smoke curling around his ears.

Tom shrugs. “This is Indiana, dude. There isn’t really an opportunity to learn, you know?”

Contrary to how Tommy is in class and stuff, all witty comments and dumbassery, when it’s just the two of them he’s actually pretty cool. Listens to good music, knows when to shut up. They’re cut from the same cloth. 

“Might have to teach you sometime,” Billy crushes the cigarette with his heel and winks. For a long moment Tommy just kind of looks at him like he has a lot to say but maybe thinks better of it. 

He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sure thing Hargrove.” Tommy turns toward the parking lot and yells, “See ya ‘round, loser.” In a way that makes Billy grin like an idiot.

So the kid isn’t so bad. Sue him.

The locker room is mostly empty by the time Billy makes it back in. Blawson and Sanchez are on their way out, talking about some college party that’s happening on Saturday when Billy stops dead in his tracks.

Steve’s standing at his locker, towel wrapped loosely around his hips. He looks over at Billy like he’s been waiting for him or something and then suddenly they’re alone. 

Should’ve left when he had the chance.

“You can’t ignore me for the rest of your life, Billy.”

“It’s been one day, princess. Can’t handle it?” When he looks over Steve is staring at his bare chest. He hates the way it makes him feel. 

“What can I say,” His eyes scan the length of Billy’s body, head to toe and back up again. “It’s like a drug.”

And he doesn’t want to do this. Not now, not ever. There’s heat burning through his legs but it’s different this time. Anger mixed with something else, something new. 

Embarrassment. Billy cheeks flush as he peels off his uniform.

“Can we just let it go?” His voice betrays him. Pitches like he’s trying to hit a high note or something. He can’t be rejected again. Won’t survive it. 

Billy brushes past the kid on his way to the showers and Steve’s hand shoots out, two fingers pressing against his sternum.

“Please,” He whispers, “Please just _talk to me.”_

Billy smacks his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He pads down the tiled hallway, dead set on leaving Harrington behind, but of course Steve’s following him. “I said I was sorry, Billy, what more do you want--”

“For you to go back to your own planet,” He snaps. The handle to the trough groans as Billy turns on the hot water. “You really can’t take a fucking hint, can you?”

The soft brown of Steve’s eyes melts, smoldering like it’s burning a hole in his head. And maybe it is, because his voice shakes.

“What can I do. How can I fix this?”

Billy drops his towel and steps into the stream, letting his head roll back. “Nothing to do, pretty boy.” He rubs soap along the ridge of his stomach. “You’re not a faggot. Plain and simple.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Billy smiles at him. “Why should I take the risk, huh? If you’re still in love with Wheeler.”

“This is such bullshit!” Steve’s fist hits the wall, thundering through the quiet room. "I'm trying to move on. I'm _trying."_

Billy likes this side of him. His desperation is sugary-sweet, pathetic, and it melts into Billy’s tongue. He feels powerful, like the ball’s in his court now.

But then Steve’s towel is gone and Billy doesn’t feel so hot.

Harrington turns on the trough next to his and just, stands there. Lets the water run down his face. Billy tries so hard not to stare but he’s _human._

His voice escapes, small and timid. “Why are you doing this, Steve?”

“Forgot to clean behind my ears,” He responds flatly.

And Billy can’t take it anymore. He shuts off Steve’s water, just like that night after their first game. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“You know what I’m talking about, dipshit.” Steve stares at him blankly so Billy wags a finger between them, wrist flinging water into the air. “This, why are you doing this? With me.”

Harrington’s eyes go soft again. “I don’t know.”

“Y-you _don’t know?”_ Billy seethes. Because that’s _so_ not good enough and they both know it. 

Steve backpedals. “Billy, what do you want me to. Look, I’m just.” He tugs at his hair. “I’m just as confused as you are, okay? I’ve never. Felt, like _this._ Not with another guy.”

“I’m _not_ a goddamn 30-day trial,” Billy jabs his finger into the kid’s chest. “I’ve been like this. _This way,_ my whole life and I can’t afford to, to let some pathetic, unsure _idiot_ like you fuck everything up, do you understand?”

Steve closes the distance between them, grits his teeth. “What do you want from me, Billy?” His face is red as a tomato. “Do you want me to apologize for loving you? Because I won’t.”

Billy barks a laugh. “You don’t love me. You just want to fuck.” It’s cruel and vicious and he can see the moment Steve decides to hit him before it happens.

He laughs again, blood on his chin this time. Steve’s eyes are wide and dark and he just says, “Fuck you, okay. _Fuck you.”_ Like he’s the one with the broken heart.

Billy grins. “Like I said.”

Steve grabs the soap out of his hand and rubs it down his own stomach because of course this conversation isn’t over. “You’re a coward. You know that?” He throws it back at Billy’s chest. The soap lands on the floor in a pathetic heep

“Remind me, who was the one who ended things last night?” 

“You’re the one who ran away.” Steve spits. “Although, I’m beginning to expect that from you.” 

Billy feels his blood rush south and he tries to ignore it. Even God couldn’t convince him to go down this road again. His mouth runs away without him. 

“You got sick at the sight of my dick, wasteoid, what was I supposed to do? Wait around to be burned at the stake?”

Steve’s chin is quivering and Billy _wants_ him to cry. Begs him to weep and tear his hair out and jump off a bridge. To feel everything Steve’s put him through like it’s his own shit. 

Harrington sniffs, “I wouldn’t do that to you. I would _never_ do that.”

And Billy almost believes him. He turns the faucet off and grabs his towel, determined to end things for real this time. Steve’s eyes rest on his back as he dries his skin.

“What are you so afraid of, Billy?” Steve whispers. 

Suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder. He lets himself be moved until fingers brush against his cheek, tipping his face toward the light.

Billy stares into Steve’s eyes. “You love Nancy.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

And Billy thinks the kid really is an idiot. Completely clueless. “It means everything, Steve.” He steps back and the space between them feels a mile long. “It means that this, whatever you think you’re feeling, is just a rebound. I’m your ticket back on the saddle.”

Steve’s shaking his head. “No, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Billy rolls his eyes, runs the towel through his hair. 

“Think this is my first rodeo?” And Steve raises his eyebrows like _explain it to me._ But no. Billy’s done. He cocks his head to the side, sizes the kid up. “Straight boys. You’re all the goddamn same.”

“This isn’t about me, Billy, and you know it.”

He grits his teeth. “What?”

“Your dad. You’re scared of Neil, aren’t you?”

The feeling of Max’s soccer trophy sinking into his skull. The look on his lover’s face. All his life he’s lived in fear, it’s as natural to him as breathing and he can’t take a risk for someone who isn’t sure about him.

He crosses his arms. “Maybe so. But you don’t know my father, okay, guy’s a piece of shit.”

Steve tries to touch him but drops his hand when Billy flinches. His throat bobs as he swallows. “You don’t have to be afraid of him, I’ll protect you.”

Billy laughs, cold and cruel. “You really do live in Never-Never land, don’t you kid? What about your parents? What about Coach, what about _Nancy?_ What happens when they find out you’re fucking another guy?”

Suddenly Steve can’t meet his gaze and that’s all the explanation Billy needs. “Thought so. And by the way, never- _never_ call me again.”

Steve looks like he’s going to throw up so Billy wraps the towel around his waist. His feet splash on the wet tile, so loud in the silence, and behind him Harrington clears his throat.

“If you have to go can I. Please, can I kiss you?” His voice cracks and Billy doesn’t have to turn around to know the kid’s crying.

_Goddammit._

He has to look. In the steam, wet skin and pink lips, Steve is so heartbreaking. Like an angel cast out of Heaven, and Billy’s resolve collapses like it never existed in the first place. 

They’re drawn together like magnets. 

Steve kisses him like it’s his life’s purpose, like there's nothing outside of Billy’s embrace, his lips, his eyes. Tongues clashing like boats in the ocean. 

They kiss like the world is on fire and this will save them. Like love will save them.

Nothing in Billy’s life has proven that to be true. He bites down on Steve’s lip and pulls back with a whimper. This is it, there’s no going back.

“Billy, don't--” 

“I want a love that lets me _breathe.”_ He says, and that’s it. He can’t do it anymore. When Steve finally meets his gaze he feels the foundation crack somewhere in his soul. “If you ever get to that point, let me know, okay?”

Steve nods. Their lips find each other one final time, little butterfly kisses all over the place, and then he peels himself away from the kid. Behind him the sound of Steve's fist connecting to the wall knocks his joints out of place.

It takes every ounce of Billy’s strength to keep walking

\--

He spends the rest of the afternoon in the family room, lifting weights until his arms feel like they’re a separate entity. No matter how many reps he does, how many cigarettes he smokes, he can’t work out the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

He turned Steve down. Made him cry, told him no.

And he did it because it was the best thing for the both of them. Because they need to grow and it isn’t reasonable or safe for Billy to allow Steve into his life. Not when the kid is so unsure about the big stuff. 

In his experience, uncertainty leads to mistakes. Reckless behavior.

And he can’t take that risk. Not when he pays for his sins in blood.

Billy pumps his arms,  _ twenty-five, twenty-six,  _ and wonders what Harrington is doing. If he and Nancy are back together yet. If they ever will be. 

He takes a swig of beer and starts another set.

If he’s being completely honest with himself, he hopes they can patch things up. These last few weeks with Steve, making dinner, giving the kid stitches and drinking in his living room have been the best of Billy’s life. But nothing has ever shown him that good things come for free.

He doesn’t expect handouts, he doesn’t trust the sky to stay in its place. It’s like Neil said; one day the other shoe will drop and Billy will wind up dead. 

Suddenly the doorbell rings and he  _ so  _ isn’t in the mood for guests. 

“Max,” He shouts over  _ Led Zeppelin,  _ “Are you getting that or what?” Billy pumps his arms, focuses on his breathing.

“Yeah, hold on!” 

Doorbell again. He’s pissed. “Max, get you ass in here!” 

She stomps through the living room, red hair a swirling tornado around her. Billy’s ears burn when she flings the door open, quickly looks over her shoulder and steps out onto the porch.

He knows without having to see that it’s Lucas Sinclair, who also has a name now, apparently.

Billy hears muffled voices under the roar of the stereo but he can’t make out what they’re saying, exactly. He lets the weight fall on its rack and stalks toward the door, Lion to prey, ready to become the antagonist. Max steps over the threshold.

“Who were you talking to?” Billy grumbles.

And he can practically see the gears turning in her freckled skull. “Mormons?”

“Mormons.” He repeats, cigarette smoke curling from his nostrils.

Max nods her head eagerly. “Yep, Talkative ones.” and pushes past him with confidence. Billy almost respects her gall enough not to open the door and check. Almost.

Of course, there’s nobody there when he looks down Cherry street. Just Mrs. Marxson who waves a manicured hand. Billy nods politely and goes back in the house. 

The kid’s an idiot. Truly has no concept of danger, of responsibility. For the past year Billy’s tried to communicate, without having to come right out and say it, the chaos Neil engenders.  _ He hits me and if I wasn’t here he’d hit you too,  _ but he’s starting to think she wouldn’t get it otherwise.

He makes his way through the house to his bedroom and grabs  _ Misery  _ off the shelf. Billy still has fifteen pages to get through but figures he can pass it to Max since he’s read it before.

She’s in the kitchen making a sandwich, PB & J, and freezes in place when he slides the hardcover across the counter. Don’t have to talk, just read. That’s their way.

“Billy,” Her voice is small, fragile. “Can I ask you something?”

He turns around against his better judgement and sure enough, she looks worried. Like she needs to talk through something and  _ of course  _ Billy would be the one to do it. 

He opens the fridge and looks inside. “I guess.” 

Max cuts her sandwich in half and holds one out to him, a peace offering. He takes it. The day keeps getting stranger and stranger. 

“Do you hate me, or something?” 

Billy shrugs his shoulders, “To be fair, you don’t exactly like me either, kid.” He hops up on the counter and lets his feet bang against the cabinet, a rhythmic beat to break up the silence. 

Max nibbles at the crust, clearly nervous. “Do you miss California?”

And the ocean suddenly roars in his ears. “Everyday.” He whispers.

Billy misses the sun, the white sandy beaches, the way summer settled on his body like a second skin. Max stares at him, seeming to know. Understand.

She nods her head. “Yeah, me too.”

Billy swallows thickly. “Thought you loved it here. Made a bunch of new friends, and all that,” He says, and he’s jealous. The way people gravitate to Max like she’s a source of light and comfort. 

“My friends are cool, sure, but they’ve all known each other since birth, basically.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll always be the outsider.”

Billy knows the feeling. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence, eating their sandwiches while Max reads the back of  _ Misery _ , and Billy allows himself to remember the first time they met. 

Her hair had been in pigtails, such a girly-girl before Billy had had the chance to get under her skin and introduce her to skateboarding and rock music. Neil had knocked on his door one rainy afternoon and said, ‘this is your new sister.’ Then just left her standing in the doorway, awkward limbs and braces. 

“Name’s Billy,” He’d huffed, and Max had crossed her arms.

“This is such bullshit. You're not my brother and your dad’s an asshole, by the way.”

Billy liked her almost immediately. Of course, he tried to hide it.

Before his eyes she’s morphed into a teenager who many would consider beautiful. Maybe he does, maybe he’s protective of her because even though she’s always been a little shithead he notices her noticing him. 

The ways he reacts to things, how he deals with Neil and their new life in Hawkins. Maybe even got the shittiness directly from him. 

And Billy tries to be a good big brother but he just  _ can't. _ Not after what she did to him. 

Max looks up and smiles brightly, lifts the book over her head, “I think I’ll like this one. Another winner.”

Billy goes back to lifting weights while Max sits in the recliner. They stay like that until the sun sets, talking about the first three chapters like it’s happening in their own lives and Billy decides that from here on out, he’s going to work on forgiveness. On love.

He’s going to do what it takes to live a happy, normal life. And even if it’s not exactly what he wants, to date girls and have sex and be popular. What he wants is to climb inside Steve Harrington and wear him like a second skin, but that isn’t possible. Not in Hawkins, not with Steve.

He’s no good to Max if he’s dead. 

\--  
  
  



	12. Edge of Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) our chapter in the desert
> 
> This is a long one, we're nearing the end of part one! I hope you enjoy ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly, flames everywhere. I can tell you think I'm the dragon and that would be so like me, but I'm not. I'm not the dragon. I'm not the princess either. Who am I? I'm the writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.  
> For a while I thought I was the dragon. I guess I can tell you that, now. And for a while I thought I was the princess. Young and beautiful and waiting for you with confidence. But the princess looks into the mirror and only sees the princess while I'm out here, slogging through mud, breathing fire, getting stabbed to death.  
> Okay, so I'm the dragon. Big deal.  
> You still get to be the hero."

Billy comes up with a game plan. Get Tommy or one of his goons to throw a party, get drunk on beer and fuck the red-headed girl. 

Work Harrington out of his system, plain and simple. 

He gets a hold of Hawkins’ _Yellow Pages_ and looks up Tommy’s name, calls long after Max has gone into her room for the night. The kid picks up on the third ring and is clearly drunk.

“Tom?”

“Hargrove! What’s up, hombre?” There’s muffled noises in the background like Hagan has his hand over the receiver.

“Nothing much, just seeing what people are up to tonight.” God he sounds like a dweeb.

Tommy doesn’t seem to notice because he just whoops obnoxiously and says, “You should stop by.” 

_Jackpot._ “Cool, I’ll grab some beer and breeze on through.”

“Right-on, brother--” Tommy laughs at something in the background and Billy has to think fast.

“And hey, I was wondering. Is that girl there? The red-head, the one I danced with at the party?”

Tommy chuckles again, low and vicious. “Nah, but I’m sure if she knew you were coming she’d show." The flick of a lighter, Tommy inhales. "I’ll have Carole give her a call.”

Billy’s heart starts pounding in his chest. He takes a breath, wills it to stop. “And hey...uh, what’s her name again?”

There's silence and then, “Hey, save some hearts for the rest of us, yeah?” Tommy laughs with his whole gut and Billy feels some of the tension drain from his muscles.

He mutters something sarcastic, which earns him another laugh, and hangs up the phone. 

He pads down the hallway towards his room and gets dressed. Tries for casual, doesn’t want to come off arrogant or (God forbid) desperate, though it seems impossible.

He's nervous. There's no getting around it. Sure, Billy may be gay but when it comes to women he doesn’t have to put in work. They flock to him in droves. Moms, teenagers, they're pulled in by his smile, his blonde curls. Billy's sure, like a heart attack, that if he turns on the charm he’ll have the red-head wrapped around his pinky finger.

That she'll kiss him and laugh at his jokes, be an easy lay. And that's what he needs right now, something to get his mind off Steve Harrington.

Neil and Susan are in the living room, watching T.V. and reading the bible (of course), when Billy tries to slip by unnoticed.

No such luck. 

“Where you off to, boy?” Neil’s voice is sharp, cold. Billy thinks they haven’t spoken to each other all day, how can he already be pissed off, but he holds his tongue.

“Tommy Hagan is having a get together tonight, I promised Tammy I’d swing by.” His voice hitches at the end and he hopes Neil doesn’t notice.

His father sits, silent, eyes like daggers dipped in poison. Then; “No other hopeful candidates?”

“Sir?”

Neil takes a swig of beer and turns his eyes back to the T.V. “This Tammy character, don’t you think you should try other things? Pig out? Get a taste of everything at the buffet instead of deciding on the first thing you try?”

Susan's cheeks flush and she pretends not to be in the room, like always. 

For a moment Billy feels bad for her. It can’t be easy hearing your shitbird husband talk about women that way, especially then that’s how you met. The first woman with a pretty smile after Billy's mom passed. But, as quickly as the feeling surfaces it’s swallowed up and replaced by fear. Uneasiness, like Neil knows something Billy doesn’t.

Steve’s voice echoes through his head; _you don’t have to be afraid. I’ll protect you_. And it fills him with courage. He swallows. 

“Well, there is another girl too, I guess.” Steve. Brown eyes, pink lips, calloused hands.

Neil breaks into a grin. “Attaboy!” And he seems genuinely surprised. Maybe even a little proud, bizarrely enough, and it sets Billy on edge because he’s never gotten anything like it before. Not from Neil.

In their house Billy's always been the screw-up. The faggot, the smartass, the murderous bastard. Never anything positive and never _attaboy,_ for Christ-sake. It's like they're a normal family for a second, a loving father and son. His stomach lurches in a way that fuels the desire to chase normality. 

“Have fun.” His father says, and that’s it.

Billy trudges out to the Camaro and slides behind the wheel, warmth sinking into his stomach. He can’t fight the pathetic smile that works its way onto his face. It shocks him. How starved he is for Neil’s approval.

For a split second Billy thinks, okay, maybe I can do this. But a minute later he’s in front of Tommy’s house and there she is, waiting on the porch for him. The girl with the curly red hair. His palms start to sweat and he thinks about turning and running, but he knows by this time tomorrow Steve will be with Nancy again and he needs a distraction. So he wipes his hands on the steering wheel and flings open the door.

She jumps to her feet the second he steps out of the car and he plasters a smirk on his face, tries to be sensual. 

She’s lovely. Like a magnolia in may, cream colored dress and rosy cheeks. “Billy!” She calls, and he gives himself a stern lecture.

_Play it cool, you can do this._

He tosses his cigarette to the side and allows himself to be wrapped up in her arms. She smells like vanilla ice cream, nothing like Steve whose scent is Earthy. Lemons and black pepper.

Her soft curls tickle his nose and make his head spin and he’s not sure he prefers it.

 _Give the girl a chance._ “Hey, baby,” He drawls, and she laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Smacks him on the arm and he realizes maybe this could be easy. Maybe he doesn’t have to try so hard. She’ll probably be an easy lay, after all.

“I’m tipsy,” She whispers. Confession to a priest, and he winks, registering the pretty shade of red that saturates her cheeks. “You aren’t gonna take advantage of me, are you handsome?”

It’s obviously a joke but Billy feels like all the air has been sucked from the atmosphere. His heart starts hammering in his chest and he feels guilty, like the worst kind of human being, but he shoves the feeling down and buries it in the earth.

“That something you've though about?” He tries to be charming, to appear as the handsome prince. And it must work because she blushes again.

“Play your cards right.” Her voice is husky, dripping with sex, as she laces their fingers together and pulls him into the house.

Billy watches her hips sway side-to-side and wills his body to relax.

\--

It turns out to be a decent sized group. Tommy and Carole have invited over half the basketball team and like, five of the girls on the volleyball team. By the time Billy gets his jacket off the guys are all over him. 

Tommy ruffles his hair. “Hargrove, done sucking Harrington’s dick long enough to have some fun?” He grins, all venom. “Or do you have to be home by midnight?”

Billy smirks and snatches the beer of Blawson’s hand, empties the thing in one go. “What, jealous?” 

Everybody laughs and Billy feels himself switch. Paste on the mask and morph into someone different and suddenly the heartbroken kid is killed and replaced with the jock. The sex machine, the badass.

Billy vibrates with confidence.

Before he knows what’s happening they’re playing beer pong. Tommy’s kicking his ass and he’s had four or five drinks when the red head appears out of nowhere and offers him a joint. 

He grabs the thing from her mouth and inhales, smoke curling through his lungs and sharpening his vision. He exhales into her mouth and she sticks her tongue down his throat.

She wraps her arms around his neck and deepens the kiss. Billy lets it happen but then Steve’s face flashes across his mind, sad brown eyes and furrowed brows, and he can’t do it. 

He pulls back and winks. 

“Always playing hard to get.” She whimpers.

Billy wills the confidence to keep flowing through his veins. It’s like a drug, the way it makes his fingertips tingle and vibrate.

He gives her a little smack on the ass and turns his attention back to the game. She pulls away with a pout and disappears into the living room where the rest of the girls are dancing to Diana Ross.

Billy smirks. Always leave them wanting more. Never get too close. That’s how you keep people from asking questions. Tommy pulls another over on him and Billy drinks with a scowl. He’s getting his ass handed to him.

“For being such a wizard on the court you _suck_ at beer pong, Hargrove.” Tommy lights a cigarette.

“Yeah, well. We can’t all be a multi talented fairy like you.” He wrinkles his nose as the alcohol settles in his stomach.

“She’s hot, right?” Tommy asks. He nods his head at the girls and hands his smoke to Billy. 

“Think so?” He inhales, allowing his gaze to wander. She’s dancing, doing this thing with her hips and Billy knows. Can tell she’s doing it for him so he’ll be impressed or something. It would be embarrassing if he weren’t drunk.

“Definitely,” Hagan grins like a jack-o-lantern and it makes Billy laugh. “You gonna hit it, or what?”

Billy raises his eyebrows and tries for humor. “Tommy Hagan, are you trying to slip in?”

“Right, like Carole wouldn’t put me in the fucking ground.” The kid rolls his eyes like _women,_ but Billy can tell he loves her. It’s kind of sweet. “I meant for you, hombre. I’ve never even seen you pay attention to a girl before.”

Billy pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lights it, passes it over. “Hawkins girls. Kind of a bunch of cows, if I’m honest.” That earns him a laugh.

“Well, for what it’s worth, she’s into you.” Tommy hands him the cigarette and clamps a hand on his shoulder, leaning in. “If you really want to make Harrington jealous…”

The kind winks and then he’s gone.

Billy finishes his cigarette and tries to relax. Everything leads back to Steve and, frankly, if Tommy’s starting to notice then something has to be done. 

He drops the butt of his smoke into a solo cup and heads to the dance floor.

\--

Somehow they end up on a lounger in the backyard. 

She’s sitting next to him with a hand on his thigh. Digging her nails into his skin, completely carnal, and she’s looking at him like _kiss me._ Like she wants to tear his mouth off with her teeth. 

She looks lovely, her lips are soft and peachy. And as many times as Billy's fucked women for whatever reason--Carla Stienham in his room during freshman year or Becca Hodge at the lake during Christmas--he's nervous. The red head sucks at the skin on his neck and grinds her hips against his leg and he can't bring himself to touch her. Can't open his eyes or breathe or move. He's petrified.

Tommy’s in the house fucking Carole’s brains out and Billy knows this because he can hear them through the window and all he can think about is Steve. 

The way he’d begged him not to go, the feeling of their tongues winding together, the sound of knuckles against tile. In a lot of ways he feels like he’s cheating on Steve with this random girl but _he's not._ They aren't together. Steve is probably fucking Nancy right now and while it makes Billy's teeth clench he understands.

He's in the closet. To keep his lover safe he has to play the part, it comes with the territory, though he's never gotten used to it. 

_But,_ he thinks as the girls starts nibbling at the skin on his jaw, _this can't be like California. Not_ again.

So, Billy kisses her. 

And it’s not terrible, just different. _Wrong_. And he knows it’s wrong but still, he lets her climb on top of him and unbutton his shirt and suck and the skin above his ribs.

Billy closes his eyes and pretends that it’s Steve’s mouth. Steve’s hands, doing those things to him. 

“You’re so sexy, Billy,” Her moans are breathy and weak and he wishes she’d just shut up so they can get it over with. The girl somehow gets her hands in his pants and he feels like he’s going to hurl. 

Really, feels like he's going to vomit all over her pretty cream colored dress when she starts moving her hands up and down. Then his pants are gone and she starts doing things with her tongue and Billy forgets where he is. Who he’s with.

Brown eyes, soft lips, calloused hands. _Steve._

Thankfully Billy’s body sort of takes over and knows what to do, like this really is the natural order. Men with women and all that. She’s loud and she doesn’t seem interested in anything other than a rough fuck so that’s what Billy gives her. Sharp and fast and messy.

He keeps his eyes closed the whole time but she doesn’t seem to notice.

She comes and then it’s over. Just like that, she rolls off of him and collapses her head on his chest. “Holy shit, where did you learn to do that?”

It’s funny. A faggot did that to her. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” He says. And it’s true.

She laughs again, breathy and sweet, and kisses his neck before hopping to the ground. The girl mutters something about having to use the bathroom but Billy doesn’t hear her. Isn’t listening.

He’s grateful to be alone. 

Billy pulls his pants on, lights a cigarette. In the moonlight he feels every truth he's ever felt about himself, good and bad, rise to the surface like oil in water.

He’s done something regretful, something dirty. The sensation is like acid chewing at his heart and suddenly he has to move, work the guilt from his muscles.

So he gets up. 

Billy hates a lot about the Midwest but the trees aren’t one of them. Hawkins is home to lush, dense forests and in a way it reminds him of home. Walking through the woods is similar to surfing a pipeline wave; being completely consumed and protected all at once. 

It’s incredibly private in the dim line of trees, like he doesn't have to hide from anyone, least of all himself. 

Billy’s lighting another cigarette when he hears the sound of footsteps, the snap of a twig under foot.

And then chirping.

The sound is immediately recognizable and his skin goes cold.

Billy turns to find an empty clearing. Tt’s difficult to see in the dim moonlight but something rustles the trees up ahead and he’s suspended in time and space. Floating and falling at the same time, waiting for something to happen. It reminds him of all the times Neil took him hunting as a kid.

The cigarette falls from his lips.

A dark figure darts across the path and Billy's suddenly furious. “Tommy, don’t be a little shit, come on." He waits. Nothing.

And then a second sound draws his attention from deeper in the wood. Like somebody lumbering through gravel.

Billy takes a tentative step forward, his boots crunching dried compost as he follows the noise. One foot in front of the other, _stretch-release._

Suddenly the temperature drops out from under him and he starts to shake and vibrate with fear. He's immediately transported back to that night at the quarry. The voice in his head, the shock to his system. He knows how this story ends.

Gravity gives way and things start floating in the air, leaves and tree bark obscuring his vision. At this point the heaviness in the air is like an old friend. 

And then everything goes quiet. It’s like the entire world has been put on mute, the rustling in the trees giving way to an absolute silence that's so thick it's almost tangible.

The only sound is Billy's ragged breathing, his heart pounding in his throat like a bass drum.

Billy allows his feet to carry him forward until he runs headfirst into the base of a tree. 

His hand shoots out, fingers grappling for balance, and when he steadies himself his palm comes back sticky. 

“Ugh, fuck,” Billy flexes his fingers, rubs at his jeans but it’s no use. The shit is like super glue. 

From this far off the path it’s hard to see. Like the moon has been swallowed whole. He sparks his lighter and holds the thing above his head like a torch, squinting into the darkness.

Billy nearly screams.

The tree is oozing. _Melting_ right there in the forest like a marshmallow with blackened skin. All along its flank thousands of bugs feast on its rotting flesh. He stumbles back and freezes in his tracks as the chirping up starts again, this time right at his heels.

_You don't have to be afraid, I'll protect you._

Billy wills himself to turn around. Prepares to face some sort of horrible monster when suddenly the world is consumed with light. It’s blinding, and Billy falls flat on his ass into a pile of moldy leaves.

There’s sound coming from everywhere. Deafening, vicious, like microphone feedback blaring from a million speakers at once. Billy drops the lighter, clamps his hands over his ears in a last ditch effort to block out the noise. 

That’s when he sees it. The creature.

It’s small, a hairless and malnourished dog. Bones poke through the skin like it hasn't eaten in months and Billy feels a scream bubble up in his throat. The thing has no eyes and it’s growling, low and threatening, from somewhere in its chest. 

He’s going to die. Can feel it in his bones.

It stalks forward, slowly, as if aware that Billy is too terrified to move and wouldn’t be much fun to hunt in his surprised state. Like it’s giving him the opportunity to run, which Billy takes immediately. 

Only his legs move like he’s waist deep in the ocean. Sluggish, lazy, and he backs up until the thing’s entire face _opens up and peels back_ , revealing hundreds of razor sharp teeth. It’s the most terrifying thing Billy’s ever seen.

And then he’s running. 

Tearing blindly through the forest, screaming and crying like a little girl because he _knows,_ in his heart, that the monster is chasing him. Can feel its breath on his heels, hear its feet on the gravel. 

Tommy's house swings into view and Billy closes his eyes.

He’s going to die.

\--

Billy lurches awake, a scream dying on his lips.

His skin is slick with sweat as sunlight filters into his room. It’s morning, and like last time it takes him five seconds to remember what happened last night. The clock on the wall reads _7:30_ in cheerful red numbers and Billy sits, raises a hand to rub at his forehead.

Just like last time he’s got a migraine that could split canyons.

Also like last time, he’s somehow lost track of seven hours. 

What’s different about this morning, however, is Billy knows what happened last night wasn’t a dream. Doesn’t even entertain the thought as he fumbles around the bedside table for his pack of reds and comes up empty handed. Of course. 

His fingers are sticky, covered in that black shit from the forest and he reels as bits and pieces come tumbling into focus. The monster's face peeling back, opening up like a venus fly trap. The tree bark dripping like melted candle wax. 

There’s no way his mind would be able to invent something that terrifying.

He remembers stumbling through the woods as the creature chased him. Tommy’s backyard flying into view and then--nothing. Just darkness.

Billy stands, slowly, and stretches the muscles in his neck. Whatever’s happening isn’t normal. Sure, he’s gotten black out drunk before but never on beer and not since they’ve been in Hawkins. 

He pulls aside the curtain over his window and peeks into the driveway and sure enough, the Camaro sits, perfect as ever. _Huh._

Somehow he got home unscathed. Billy stares at his reflection in the mirror above the stereo and checks his body for bumps, scratches, teeth marks. Anything that could prove the validity of what happened last night.

Nothing. He grits his teeth, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. Stranger and stranger. 

There’s a knock at his door. Billy jumps and throws the thing open to find Max fully dressed, skateboard in hand. He swears.

“Jesus, you look like hell,” She says, and Billy frowns.

“The hell do you want, shitbird.” 

Max stares at him like he’s lost his mind and maybe he has. “School? It’s Tuesday.” She says, and Billy ducks behind the door to check the clock on the wall. _7:40._ Shit.

“Okay, kid, gimme fifteen.” Billy slams the door in Max’s face before she can start with her bullshit and begins rooting around his bedroom for the baby wipes he always keeps on standby for mornings like this.

He does a quick birdbath, focusing on only the important areas, before throwing on fresh clothes. Billy’s halfway through tying his laces when he notices the black shit still on his fingers, like spidery tattoos on his skin. He stares in shock, brows furrowed, and takes a fresh baby wipe to it. 

He scrubs until his skin turns red but it’s no use, the gunk stays put. He finishes tying his shoes and freezes as his veins turn to ice.

The shit is _moving_.

Swirling and pulsating against his skin like it’s alive or something.

Max bangs on the door again and he jumps, a small scream escaping his lips. “Billy! Come on, we’re gonna be late!” 

_7:55._ He groans and slings his backpack over his shoulder, so _not_ in the mood for school.

\--

He can’t stop staring at his hands.

All through first and second period he picks at the skin around his fingernails, trying to get the shit to disappear or at least flake off, for christ-sake, but it's no use. Billy just ends up with blood under his fingernails anyway.

By the time lunch rolls around he’s exhausted. His head’s throbbing like there’s a jackhammer on the loose or something so he really isn’t in the mood for conversation when Tammy Thompson waddles up to his table and says, “I didn’t know you were dating Angela.”

Billy frowns. _Has her voice always been this annoying?_ “Who the hell is Angela?”

Tammy stares at him. “Angela Morris, you, um,” And she leans in like someone’s listening even though Billy sits alone and that pisses him off. “Word on the street is you hooked up last night?”

So _that’s_ her name. He was way off. 

Billy shrugs his shoulders and smirks. “What’s it to you?”

“Oh, _I_ don’t give a shit but I just thought you’d want to know that it’s all anyone has been talking about all day.” Tammy walks away before he can respond and Billy feels like he just got punched in the stomach.

Steve must have heard. Must be thinking a million and three things right now, all of which involve Billy being a crotchety little shit and a liar. 

He tries not to let it bother him. After all, he was the one who said no. Who’d made it clear that he didn’t want Steve, even if it had been a lie. And Billy does a great job of pretending like he doesn’t care but then he gets to English and Nancy Wheeler’s seat is empty.

_All aboard the straight train._

His blood boils all through class and when he enters the locker room before practice Steve’s there, changing into his uniform and completely ignoring everyone in the room. 

Billy tries extra hard to pretend like he doesn’t care. 

Rough-houses with Tommy, talks shit, even throws around ‘pretty boy,’ a couple of times and that’s when Harrington finally looks at him. Like it’s the last straw or something.

No, look isn’t the right word. _Glowers_ , downright throws daggers at Billy like he’d skin him alive if they didn’t need his body for the team. And to be honest, he’d like to pretend that the looks don’t tear him apart and turn him on all at the same time, but they do. 

Billy runs off the adrenaline all through practice and when it’s finally time to pack up for the night he isn’t surprised when Steve’s there. Waiting.

They wait for the locker room to clear out and then Billy peels off his uniform, head buried in his locker. “Who pissed in your cheerios, princess?”

Steve’s voice is raw. “Did you really fuck Angela Morris?”

Billy can’t stop the smirk that spreads across his face. _Mission accomplished._ He slams the locker door and grabs his shower caddy. “What’s it to you?”

“You are so full of shit, you know that?” Steve gets in his way, hands balled into fists. “Gave me a whole speech. All ‘ _let me know when you’re ready,’_ when it’s not about me at all. This is about you.” 

Billy rolls his eyes, relishes the flush that’s working its way up Steve’s neck. “Get out of my way, Harrington.”

Steve shakes his head. “No way, you owe me an explanation.”

“Oh and I’m sure you didn’t run back to Wheeler the second we called things off yesterday, right?” Billy drawls, surprised by how cool his voice sounds. 

“What are you talking about?” Steve shouts. His voice reverberates off the walls, making things feel heavier all of a sudden.

“Tell me you didn’t think about it.” He says. Steve opens his mouth and then closes it again. _Gotcha._ Billy’s eyes fill with tears. He closes the distance between them. “And her empty desk today in English, you didn’t have anything to do with that either, right?”

“How many times do I have to say it?” Steve’s voice cracks and Billy just wants this part to be over. The fighting, the petty bullshit. Just wants to wrap his arms around the kid and kiss him for a hundred years. “Nancy has nothing to do with us.”

But Billy doesn’t do any of that. It’s like Wheeler’s name is the magic word. He feels his heart close like a steel door. “I thought I made myself clear, Harrington.” He clenches his fist, _stretch-release._ “There is no us.”

A tear slides down Steve’s cheek, lazy and slow. And that’s it, like all of a sudden he gets it. Billy watches as Steve grabs his stuff and shoves it in his backpack. Then he’s standing there like a marble statue, hair big and crazy, jaw clenched.

“Alright, Hargrove. I’m done making a fool of myself over you.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Billy to stare after him in stunned silence.

\--

When Max and Billy get home that afternoon there’s a note on the counter with clear instructions:

_Date night. Be back by 7:00. WATCH YOUR SISTER!_

Max reads the note over his shoulder and huffs a sigh. “Jesus Christ, I’m not a little kid anymore, I don’t need a babysitter.”

Billy nods his head like _yeah, tell me about it_ , and that earns him a smile. He treks through the kitchen and opens cabinets, looking for something to whip up for dinner. “What do you think, Shells & Cheese or Spaghetti?”

She considers this, nose scrunched up like a bunny rabbit and they say the same thing at the same time. “Spaghetti.” 

Billy nods his head and fills a pot with water. He hardly notices Max is still in there but then the radio turns on and he nearly shits his pants. “Jesus, Maxine.”

She throws her hands up in defense, “Sorry. Look, I’m not allowed to watch T.V. right now so might as well hang out here.” Max drops her backpack on the counter and pulls out _Misery._

“Mom and dad grounded _you?”_ He turns on the stove and waits for the pans to heat up, one for pasta and the other for sausage. They both hate ground beef.

Max nods her head, clearly absorbed in her book. “Shocking, right?”

But Billy doesn’t hate their conversation, isn’t ready for it to end so he asks, “What for?” 

“Neil saw me at the arcade with a bunch of boys,” There’s something tinging the ends of her words, something hidden. It sounds like indifference but then she says, “He called me a dirty whore.”

And Billy knows instantly that it’s shame. Neil is teaching her to be ashamed of herself, and that does something to him. He lights a cigarette. “You’re not a whore, Maxine.”

Her eyes are glassy, distant, so Billy turns back to the stove. He pulls a package of meat from the fridge and plops it in the frying pan, seasons it with salt and pepper.

“Billy, I’m sorry.” 

He freezes in place. Seconds tick by as he tries to find his voice because Max is a _kid._ Shouldn’t have to worry about stuff like stitches and trips to the hospital. Billy wants to say it’s alright, wants to forgive her, but the words don’t come.

Then; “D-did you hear me? I said I was--”

“I heard.” He dumps the noodles into the water, stirs them with a spoon. He can hear the kid crying and knows he should do something so he just says, “We don’t have to apologize to each other, Max.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence because, to be honest, neither of them are equipped to deal with things like this. Emotions. Especially not when they can get so messy. Billy just cooks dinner and they eat in silence for a while, content.

But then Max looks into his eyes and says, “You’re gay, aren’t you.” 

And he doesn’t know how to react, has never said the words out loud while someone looked at him so open. So earnest. 

The minutes tick by, one-by-one, while Billy decides if he’s ready. If he can fathom the possibility that Max will never look at him the same way, never share books with him again.

He takes a drink of water and she whispers, “You can tell me, if you are.”

“You know the answer,” Is all he can manage. “You. It’s your fault we’re here.”

Max's eyes immediately fill with tears. “Billy, I didn’t mean--”

His fist slams on the table before he can stop it. “Bullshit.” He feels a tear escape, silent and alone. “You told Neil. You saw us and you, you _told him,_ Max.”

The kid nods her head, once, like all the weight in the world lives on her shoulders in this moment. 

Billy leans forward. “I almost died because of you.”

“I hate you,” Max says, “I hate you so much.”

He stands, snatching their plates off the table. “Then leave, shitbird.”

So she does. 

Billy turns on _Ratt_ and cleans the kitchen. Washes the dishes, scrubs the table, as the sound of Max’s slamming door echos through the house.

Dumb little shit. Everything horrible in Billy’s life exists because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Because she was raised by bigots and losers and creeps and the _second_ she saw someone different, vulnerable, she called in the hounds. He sweeps the floor, washes his hands, and then stalks toward his weight set in the family room.

Billy’s on his fifth round when the phone rings.

“Hello?” He tries to make his voice stop shaking but it won’t. 

“Um, hi is Billy Hargrove home?” The voice is female, soft and polite. “This is Angela Morris, from school?”

And just like that, Billy knows how he can work out his frustration.

He turns on the charm with a flip of the switch. “Angela, this is Billy. What can I do for you?”

  
  



	13. The Hairpin Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) the one where I become the gun against your skull & it's not super fun to rely heavily on the Suffer Bros. and their writing but hey. The last two episodes of Season Two are Billy centered and we just have to get through it :|

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One of them wants to take you apart. One of them wants to put you back together. It's time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? Pick one. This is how you make meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be?  
> You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don't know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here, you are here, you are still right here."

He can’t say he’s all that surprised when Max doesn’t come out of her room for the rest of the night. If he’s being honest he’s grateful. Means they don’t have to pretend everything’s okay.

Her abject silence gives Billy the chance to workout and finish his homework even though his mind is clouded with guilt the entire time. 

The thing is; he has trouble defining the space between where their relationship begins and ends. How he can move on and forgive her because, honestly, holding onto anger is proving to be difficult. 

But they all do what is needed for survival. So by the time 7:00 comes and goes and it’s pretty obvious that Neil and Susan are going to be late, Billy does what he needs to.

He gets ready for his date. 

Showers and does his hair and practices what he’s going to say in the mirror. Really puts in effort for Angela because this could be good for him. His image and all that. 

Billy stands in front of his closet for thirty minutes trying to decide what to wear even though everything suddenly looks ridiculous. He’s ready to just throw the whole thing out when Steve’s voice echoes through his memory.  _ Look good in red,  _ he’d murmured,  _ like a prince. _

So he takes the advice and damn. Not too shabby.

Soon enough the clock reads  _ 10:00  _ and Billy’s antsy, practicing his wink in the mirror when there’s a knock at his door. 

“Billy?”  _ About damn time.  _

He blows smoke out his nose and tries to be polite. “Yeah, I’m a little bit busy in here, Susan.”

“Open the door. Right now.” Neil. Billy takes one final drag of his cigarette and wills his heartbeat to remain slow, even. He can tell by the sound of his father’s voice that Billy’s wading neck deep through shit. That something’s happened. 

The handle feels like ice and sure enough, Neil’s mustache is twitching when Billy flings the door open. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

Neil blinks. “Why don’t you tell us?” And Billy  _ so  _ doesn’t have time for this.

“Because I don’t know,” He spits, and the vein in his father’s neck jumps once. Billy swallows.

Susan’s fussing, eyebrows pulled together in a look of perpetual concern. “We can’t find Maxine,” She says gently, and It makes him feel bad, just for a second. 

“Her window’s open.” Neil says. “Well, where is she?”

And just like that Billy’s over it. So the little shit ran away. Of course. His father stares at him, expectant. Billy shuffles his feet. “I. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Neil scoffs. Yeah, this is going to cost him. Billy steps away from the door.

“Look, I’m sure she just. I don’t know, went to the arcade or something,” He retreats further into his room, tries to put some distance between them in case he’s gotta make a run for it or something. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

No such luck. Neil’s footsteps thunder across the floor, each one a knife in Billy’s stomach. “You were supposed to watch her.” He seethes.

“I know dad, I was. But you guys were three hours late and, well, I have a date.” Billy throws on his jacket. “I’m sorry, okay.”

Neil folds his arms across his chest. Doesn’t buy it even for a second. “So that’s why you were staring at yourself in the mirror like some faggot instead of watching your sister?”

And just like that Billy’s vision tunnels. “I have been looking after her all week, dad. Okay, she wants to run off then that’s her problem, alright?” He’s trying. No matter what he does it’s never good enough and he’s tired. He’s  _ exhausted.  _ “She’s thirteen years old, she shouldn’t need a full time babysitter. And she’s  _ not  _ my sister.”

Billy regrets it the second the words hit the air because Neil charges forward, hands closing around Billy’s throat. His breath chokes out as his back slams into the bookshelf and Billy thinks to himself,  _ Don’t cry, don’t fucking cry.  _

“What did we talk about?” Neil asks.

Billy can’t get his lungs to work. The punch knocks his head to the side and he sees stars. Neil grabs his chin, forces his head still. “What did we...talk about?”

And his chin starts to quiver. His nose starts to run. “Respect. And responsibility.” Billy curses himself as his voice cracks.

“That is right,” Neil’s breath is hot in his face. “Now, apologize to Susan.” 

Billy swallows. “I’m sorry, Susan.” 

She shuffles awkwardly in the doorway and he begs her with his eyes to  _ do something _ , to stop this. She just shakes her head. “It’s okay, Neil. Really—“

“No, nothing about his behavior is okay.” Neil booms. “But he’s going to make up for it.” and Billy feels like he’s going to keel over right there. Anything would be easier than this.

His father releases him, takes a step back. “He’s going to call whatever whore he’s seeing tonight, and cancel their date.” Neil says casually. Like,  _ plain and simple.  _ “And then he’s going to go find his sister like the kind, loving, respectable brother he is. Isn’t that right, Billy?”

Neil stares at him, waiting for a response. “Isn’t that right?” He shouts and Billy’s chin quivers again, dribbling spit onto the floor. 

“Yes, sir.” 

His father frowns. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” 

Billy swallows, blinks away tears. “Yes sir.”

And just like that he’s alone. Billy sinks to the floor and lets emotion overtake him.

—

He tries not to feel guilty about flirting with Mrs. Wheeler to get information but their conversation eats away at him as he flings the Camaro’s door closed behind him.

The way she had laughed at his jokes, raked her eyes up and down his body like a goddamn searchlight. Eager and horny and so...polite. That’s the kicker. Like she had been ashamed to admit her attraction. Like she had been nervous.

Billy turns onto Hollyhock, toward the Byers’ and grits his teeth.

Making these women feel special, attractive, is a tactic. A way to survive, A means to get what he wants whether it be money or good grades or a kind word. Older women, especially those with lardy husbands and shitty kids, get wet at the drop of a hat and it’s just so easy.

Mrs. Wheeler was no different. Coming to the door in a lacy negligee. He could practically  _ smell  _ the sex radiating off her like mist and it made him feel tense.

If he’s being honest it made him feel dirty. 

All his life older women have preyed on him like ravenous sharks. Perpetuated toxic heterosexuality and in a lot of ways he can thank them for how he’s turned out. Violent and always moving, always running.

But not this time. Billy’s going to find Max and take her home, no matter what. Come hell or high water. 

Billy tries not to think about it as he pulls into the Byer’s driveway, the Camaro snarling on the gravel road. And holy shit the lady hadn’t been kidding. Fog clings to the yard like a second skin and he lights a cigarette, squints into the darkness. Tries to calm his nerves and curb the feeling that something bad is about to happen. 

It’s like the sun is blocked by storm clouds when Billy cuts the engine and Steve Harrington appears on the front porch, hands on his hips.

_ Well shit. _

Billy flings the door open. “Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?”

Steve doesn’t laugh or smile or  _ acknowledge  _ him, not in any real way, and Billy’s stomach clenches. “Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.”

It’s all so formal. So different from this afternoon that Billy feels like he’s living in an alternate universe. He takes off his jacket and stalks forward, tries to lighten the mood. 

“What are you doing here, amigo?”

Steve frowns. “I could ask you the same thing.” Then, coldly, “Amigo.”

“Looking for my step sister. Little birdy told me she was here.” Billy drops the pleasantries because it’s so bizarre. Uncomfortable, the way they’re talking like strangers. He hates it.

“Huh, that’s weird. I haven’t seen her,” Steve says, and Billy feels like he doesn’t even know the kid, can’t even remember the events of the last few weeks like his mind has been wiped clear.

Billy’s eyes gloss over. “Small, redhead. Bit of a bitch. You remember?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders, indifferent. “Huh, like I said. Haven’t seen her.”

And Billy almost believes him. Almost. “I don’t know, Harrington. This whole thing, it’s giving me the heebie jeebies.” He inhales, smoke singing his nose as the familiar burn begins running laps through his veins. 

“Yeah, why’s that?”  _ See me, understand. _

“My thirteen year old sister goes missing all day, and then I find her with  _ you,  _ in a stranger’s house,” Billy’s vision tunnels. He’s losing control, slipping away. “And you lie to me about it.”

Steve doesn’t back down. “Were you dropped too much as a child, or what?” And that hurts. Slices Billy right down the middle in clean, even halves. Because Steve knows the truth, more than anyone in Billy’s life. “I don’t get what you don’t understand about what I just said. She’s not here.”

Billy blacks out, becomes a passenger in his own mind as his body takes off without him. “Then who is that?” He points over Steve’s shoulder and the kid turns around, takes a deep breath as Max and her shithead friends disappear under the windowsill.

“Aw shit, Listen,” But Steve doesn’t get the chance.

Billy shoves the kid to the ground, cigarette dangling from his lips. Can’t make a plant to save his life, it’s pathetic really. “I told you to plant your feet,” Billy spits, and then stomps on Harrington’s chest. Just to incapacitate him, get the kid out of his way. Just to save time.

Billy stalks toward the front door and flings it open.

\--

The feeling of Steve’s fist on his jaw is familiar. Welcome, even. It brings him back to Earth long enough for Max’s face to float into focus. 

Billy’s head snaps back and he can’t stop the chilling sound that bubbles from somewhere in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but similar. Worse. Blood trickles down his chin and he’s reminded of that afternoon in the locker room so long ago. 

Some things never change.

“Looks like you got some fire in you after all, huh?” Steve’s staring at him with tears in his eyes and Billy wants to kill him. Rip him to pieces right there in the living room. “I’ve been waiting to meet this  _ King Steve  _ everybody’s been telling me so much about.”

Two fingers on his chest. Hero routine. “Get out,” Steve spits and that’s all it takes.

Billy feels his heart drop out from under him and he swings. 

Reels as Steve’s fist connects again. Once. Twice. Billy lets him have this. Drops his one hit rule because it’s  _ Steve  _ and as fucked up as it sounds, Billy doesn’t want to hurt him. At least not badly.

Three times, he’s backed into a corner and that’s it. Neil gave him orders and he intends to collect.

Billy’s hands find the closest object and he brings it down, right on Steve’s temple, relishing the way he falls back like a sissy against a bookshelf.

Billy’s feet carry him forward as Max yells something. Her voice grows tinny, distant because he’s slipping under the current. Losing control. It’s like his body is possessed. He tries to gain some semblance of restraint, some grip on reality but it’s no use.

His third punch sends Steve sliding across the floor. 

Billy crouches over him and swings blindly, every emotion from the last week coming to a head. As Steve loses consciousness Billy thinks how stupid this whole thing is. How pathetic. How he’d really let himself believe that he could love and be loved in return.

How he’d promised he would never hit Steve again and here he is, taking the kid’s life in his clunky, violent hands. 

Billy’s a monster, a freak. It’s disgusting. 

Steve’s face is starting to look more and more like roadkill, unrecognizable from the boy with the sad brown eyes, and then Billy feels a prick in his neck. It’s no more potent than a bee sting but suddenly he feels like he’s floating. 

The last thing he remembers is Steve’s blood on his knuckles, staining the skin red, before his vision succumbs to peaceful darkness.

\--

“-id? Kid, can you hear me?”

Billy frowns against the noise that’s coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He’s so comfortable, so peaceful in sleep that the sound winds itself into Billy’s dream and disappears.

Somebody’s shaking him, smacking his cheek.

“Kid, come on. Gotta get you home.” Billy knows that voice, has heard it somewhere before but he's slipping under the current again, succumbing to darkness. Figures it doesn’t really matter when he’s this comfortable.

“Quit it, ‘m tired,” He grumbles, “Sleepy.”

Billy rolls onto his side and buries his forehead in the crook of his arm and then there’s fingers in his hair, gently shaking him awake. “Come on, sweetheart, it’s time to get up.” It’s a woman’s voice this time.

Billy’s heart jumps into his throat, “Mama?” He asks weakly, but when he opens his eyes it’s not his mother, not even close. 

She’s pretty though. Brown hair and kind eyes.

Billy thinks he recognizes her but isn’t sure, exactly. He sits up with difficulty as the rest of the room floats in on wobbly, unsure feet.  _ Fuck,  _ his head is heavy and  _ thick. _

The woman smiles politely. “No, kiddo. I’m Joyce, Ms. Byers?” She puts her fingers in his hair again. “Do you know where you are?”

And Billy’s scared. Starts whimpering like a little kid as he remembers bits and pieces of what happened. He looks around wildly, drinks in his surroundings with what is surely a frightened expression. 

The walls, the floor, are covered in satanic drawings. Thick tubes oozing and dripping with color and Billy remembers Steve. His bloody face, the way Billy had turned into a monster right there in Ms. Byer’s living room. 

Billy stares at her and suddenly his cheeks are wet. “I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about your kitchen,” He stammers, “Max, she went missing and I--”

Ms. Byers shushes him, gently, and Billy’s aware that there are other people in the room. 

Max, sitting at his side with his hand in her lap. He yanks it away quickly and tries to scramble backward, away, from the massive form of Chief Hopper. 

_ Holy shit.  _ “Steve,” He asks wildly, “Is Steve okay, did I--did I kill him?”

Chief Hopper snorts in a way that makes everything seem lighter, all of a sudden. Different. “No, kid. You didn’t kill him,” He takes a tentative step forward, feet thundering on the floor like Neil’s. The vibration reaches all the way to Billy’s bones.

And that makes him panic. “No, no please don’t take me to jail, my dad’ll  _ kill me,  _ please.” 

He tries to stand, regain his footing on the carpet which is waving like the goddamn ocean. Ms. Byers tries to help him sit down, tries to tell him it will be okay but Billy doesn’t believe her. Doesn’t trust them.

He starts shaking, vibrating from fear. The Chief stares at him with kind eyes, a concerned lilt to his mustache and Billy hates it. How pathetic he’s acting in a room full of strangers. 

But then Max is suddenly in front of him, red hair a mess, face covered in dirt. “Billy, it’s okay, he just wants to take us home.” She says.

He gulps down lungful's of air and tries to make sense of the world. “Steve, where’s Steve?” He demands.

“Went to the hospital,” Chief grumbles, “Face looked like hamburger meat.”

_ Hamburger meat.  _ Billy wants to drive a stake into his heart. Scoop out the bad stuff and deliver it to Steve’s door as a trophy. A promise. He sucks down the bile in his throat and takes one step forward with the help of Max and Ms. Byers.

_ Home.  _ He feels like he could sleep for a thousand years.

One foot in front of the other, nice and easy, until he’s in the passenger side of the Camaro. Ms. Byers starts the engine and Billy leans his head against the window, looks up at the stars.

Steve is never going to speak to him again and as much as Billy _understands,_ as much as logic tells him that it's the right choice for them both, Billy just wants to call and say he's sorry.

Even though it doesn't fix anything.

Even though it doesn't matter anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all I’m so ready to move on to the next part! where I can invent my own story & there can be fluff and romance and 2 idiots in love! Thank you for sticking it out with me. 
> 
> There is a short epilogue that's important to read, though very short. I'm so excited to move forward.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) Three months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I will turn myself into a gun because I am hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting. Walking around with this bullet inside me like the bullet was already there. Like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.  
> You wanted to die for love. You always have.”

He was right. Steve misses school for a few weeks and then basketball for a few more and by the time life has receded back to normality they’ve lost all contact. Like nothing ever happened. Like it was all a dream.

In all fairness it’s not like he  _ tries _ to talk to the kid. Steve goes back to sitting with Nancy at lunch and there are two times when Billy catches him staring with that look on his face, wide eyes and pink lips, but Billy can’t bring himself to stare back. 

Can’t stomach it.

To put it bluntly; Billy is ashamed and it’s heavier than anything Neil’s ever taught him because this shit is earned. Proof that Billy really is as rotten as they say. 

So, he moves on.

Billy lifts weights and reads and writes poetry (because it helps him sleep better at night), and tries to forget the taste of Steve’s mouth. His sad eyes, the way he’d crumpled like wet sand that foggy night in November. Billy tries to forget everything and he tries to be a better person, really.

Even starts up a shaky romance with Angela Morris, who turns out to be pretty cool as far as girls are concerned.

But then one afternoon in January Nancy wheeler plops down next to him in English and says, “You know Steve misses you, right?” And Billy feels every ounce of work he’s put into his new life vanish.

“What are you talking about, Wheeler?” He doesn’t look at her. Feels her eyes on the side of his face but can’t make the switch. 

“I’m not supposed to say anything.” And Billy  _ hates  _ the sound of her voice. Like squealing tires, or something. “Steve’d kill me if he found out I said anything, but. He misses you.”

Billy clenches his teeth. “The fuck are you telling me this?” 

Nancy sighs like,  _ do I really have to explain it,  _ and Billy nods because  _ yes.  _

He’s an idiot. A dumb, violent, lovesick idiot and he’s  _ sorry.  _ He’s so sorry that it’s like he’s carrying a knife in his chest every goddamn day. She doesn’t say anything as Mrs. Jameson starts class.

Billy listens to her lecture on  _ Dante’s Inferno  _ and thinks this must be hell. Living everyday, without Steve, like nothing happened. Like they didn’t even matter at all and Billy knows it’s his fault. He broke his promise, he broke Steve and honestly? They can never go back.

But Nancy’s words flow through him and make it impossible to focus on school at all, so he opens his notebook and tears out a piece of paper.

_ How can I fix this. _

He folds the thing in half and slides it across the table, tucking it under Nancy’s elbow. She opens it, reads, and then scrawls an answer.

_ Just talk to him. He loves you. _

\--

“Just talk to him,” ends up being harder than expected because contrary to what Wheeler said, Steve takes off down the hall the second he sees Billy coming. 

Really, almost runs like Ted Bundy is trying to make amends and that puts a hole right through his confidence even though he had a whole speech prepared, for Christ-sake.

Billy goes back to the drawing board and comes up with something easier.

He’s going to write a letter and let the Postal Service do the rest. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. 

Billy starts and restarts the letter a hundred times and in the end it takes him a week to come up with the right words. The phrases that can encapsulate everything he feels for Steve. The love, the shame, the regret, the remorse.

He writes Steve’s address on the pink envelope (because Max had said color is _romantic)_ and drops it into the mailbox, hoping this could change things around.

Billy never gets a response.


End file.
